How Do I Love Thee?

by Nancy Moser

  I stared at my copy of A New Spirit of the Age, certain I must have read the line wrongly.

  I reread a comment I recognized as originally my own but found that Richard had completely changed its meaning by the addition of the word not. I had said I admired a work, and Richard had made me say the opposite. How could he?

  This was not the first edit that was misappropriated. On an earlier page I found that my description of Mrs. Shelley’s work had been ascribed to Mrs. Trollope.

  It was one thing to edit a word here and there, but to change my meaning was . . . was unconscionable.

  I scratched Flush fiercely behind the ears. “No wonder the book is being disparaged so. Surely others have found the discrepancies and the sheer falsehoods . . .”

  Suddenly I feared what Mr. Horne had written about me. I had thought it too pretentious and prideful to seek the passage first thing, but now . . .

  I found the page regarding my own literary contributions. I was horrified to see that Richard had paired my name with Caroline Norton-my nemesis!

  I read part of the pairing aloud. “ ‘One is all womanhood; the other all wings.’ ” I knew very well which was which, and resented that it implied I was not womanly.

  I read further and found more distress. In spite of poor health and being shut up in one room for six or seven years as an invalid—often spending several weeks in the dark—she is deeply conscious of the loss of external nature’s beauty. Her work too often contains an energetic morbidity on the subject of death, together with a certain predilection for terrors. And yet, she is like an inspired priestess whose individuality is cast upwards in the divine afflatus, and dissolved and carried off in the recipient breath of angelic ministrants.

  “What?” I pressed a hand against my chest, trying to calm the sudden palpitations. Richard had made me out to be a freak, owning macabre tendencies while holding myself up to be some ethereal seraph.

  I slapped the book closed and tossed it across the room. “How dare he!”

  Crow rushed in to check on the commotion.

  “Go!” I yelled, which of course did not send her running but caused her to withdraw with a shrug. I did not have tantrums often, but when I did, Crow knew it was best to leave me alone with them.

  With one hand pressed to my chest, the other found my head—which had begun to ache. This morning had started well, with my feeling in reasonable health, but now, because of Richard Horne’s duplicity . . .

  What should I do?

  What could I do? There was no way to defend myself—especially since the essence of how Richard had defined my personal life was based on truth. I could not publicly defend myself without going public, and that, I could never do. I now saw the lack of my name on the cover as a blessing.

  But the pairing of my work with Caroline Norton’s, that hurt me more than the exaggeration of my situation.

  And that . . . that I could do something about.

  If I had wanted to get a new book published before, now . . . I was determined to make the world see that Elizabeth Barrett and Caroline Norton were not in any way similar.

  Weakened from the emotional upheaval, I did not feel well enough to get up and gather my work. I rang the bell for Crow.

  She entered my room and said, “It is safe now, I assume?”

  I ignored her comment. “My work. Please bring it to me.”

  She shook her head. “Not after that outburst. I know you, Miss Elizabeth, and I know that at such times what you need is—”

  “My work,” I said again. “If you please.”

  The strength in my words—however applied—was enough to get her to gather my pages.

  In spite of my fragile state, I took up my writing where I had left it off.

  Richard Henry Horne would not get the better of me.

  Just let him try.

  “You are what?”

  Crow stood before me and raised her chin defiantly. “Married, miss. Since the thirtieth of last December.”

  “But it is nearly April.”

  “I . . . we . . .” Crow faltered. “My William thought it best to keep things as they were as long as possible.”

  Things “as they were” was having Crow minister to me, and her new husband, William Treherne, hold the position of our butler.

  “ ’Tis not like we—the both of us—have not been loyal, miss. I’ve been with you five years, since before you went to Torquay. And William, he’s been with the family since Hope End, starting out as a tenant farmer before coming to work for you as a stable boy. We are loyal, miss. You know that.”

  I knew that. Most of our servants were loyal. Minny Robinson had started out as Arabel’s nurse and was now our housekeeper, meaning she had worked within our family for over twenty-five years. Although I would miss my maid—for Crow had become much more to me than that—what soured me the most was the deceit involved, for deception was a wicked transgression worthy of the highest disdain.

  “And . . .” Crow shifted to her other foot. “You might as well know that I am with child.”

  My mind reeled with the implications and I felt a headache coming on. “And you married in secret? Do you realize what people will infer?”

  Crow blushed. “Let them infer all they will. William and I are legally wed, and . . . and we’ve done our jobs well all these months, being man and wife yet not truly living, not staying . . .” Her blush deepened.

  I tried to think of a time I had seen them together where they might have given some indication . . . I could think of no such time. As far as my eyes had seen, they had been discreet. Actually, I could be certain that no Barrett had suspected anything, or I would have heard of it.

  She continued. “We know you don’t approve, so we are both giving our notice. We’re going to start a bakery shop.”

  A laugh escaped. “You are not a cook and neither is William.”

  She shuffled her shoulders. “We knows enough, and we can learn the rest. With a baby on the way, we need to ’ave our own business. We stayed as long as we could.” She put her hands over her midsection.

  “Has my father . . . ? Has William given his notice too?”

  “Aye, miss. Today. He’ll be leaving straightaway to get the shop set.”

  “And you?”

  “I can stay a few weeks, to help you find a replacement.”

  I shook my head, stalling until I thought of some argument against that which was already accomplished. I soon thought of something. “He is not good enough for you.”

  “Ah me, do not say such a thing.”

  “He is honest and good in a common way, but he is not remarkable.”

  “Neither am I, miss.”

  “Au contraire, dear Crow,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “You are the essence of all things good. You manage me with infinite wisdom and kindness, and you carry me—in all ways.” I thought of the times Crow had actually lifted me wholly and carried me. “You are my keeper, sheltering me from any and all who would harm me.”

  “No one wants to harm you, miss,” she said.

  “Upset me, then,” I countered. “You keep the world away and are due great credit towards creating my lovely sanctum here.”

  “I merely want you to be happy,” she said.

  With those words, without warning, even from within my own being, I hurled myself towards her, encasing her in my arms. “What will I do without you? You are more than a maid to me. We have sat in this very room and read aloud together. I have lent you some of my prized volumes.”

  She gently, but determinedly, pushed me towards standing alone. “You are dear to me too, miss, as dear as a sister, and I have enjoyed our times together through sickness and . . .”

  She could not say health because in the five years she had been at my side, I had never been truly well.

  “Sickness and hard times,” she finally said. “When your brother died I was saddened as if he were my own.”

  This time, it was I who put some distance between
us. “And so . . . knowing the loss I have suffered, you cannot leave me. I will not allow it.”

  She gave me one of her looks that was stemmed with patience yet edged with condescension. “William and I ’ave a new life now, miss, and with the baby . . .”

  I knew I should be happy for them, for wasn’t it every woman’s dream to have a family and a home of her own?

  Not every woman . . .

  Yet even with my inner acknowledgement the pettiness leached out. “Fine,” I said. “You leave. Abandon me to fend for myself while you . . . you . . . go and . . . bake something.”

  There was that look again, but this time, a smile was added. She patted her abdomen and said, “Yes’m, I guess I’ll learn how to deal with two types of buns in the oven.”

  Her wit and use of words had been another endearing attribute. I could not withhold a smile. With difficulty I forced it away and shook a finger at her. “You have angered me, Crow. You know that, don’t you?”

  She clasped her hands in front of her apron. “I know that,” she said with a nod.

  “You have saddened me beyond words.” Tears threatened, which was, after all, a right response to having one’s world torn apart.

  “I know that too,” she said. Her eyes glistened as well.

  We stood there, looking upon each other a good moment. Then, both needing release, she held out her arms to me, and I went to her, and let her take care of me-one more time.

  Henrietta helped me with my hair, curling the ringlets around her finger and setting them as a frame about my face. “There,” she said, taking a step back. “You are lovely.”

  “I am never lovely,” I said. “But I suppose I am presentable to a maid.”

  I hated the disdain in which I had pronounced the last word. For I prided myself on treating servants well. It was my mother’s doing; she had set the tone for us. That some people of society taught their children not to talk to servants . . . it was an atrocity both in morals and instincts.

  Henrietta did not comment on my faux pas. She knew how stressed I was about the changeover from Crow to this new maid she had interviewed and hired. Her name was Elizabeth Wilson. She had been referred to us by a Barrett cousin and was from Northumberland. Supposedly she was gentle-voiced and of a bright and kind countenance.

  It did not matter. That she was not Crow outplayed any of her supposed attributes.

  There was a knock on the door below. Henrietta jumped to her feet. “That must be her.” She pointed a finger at me. “You will behave, won’t you, Ba?”

  I could only give her a shrug.

  As she left me I allowed myself one last thought of Crow, who was now leading her own life, away from me. Although she had vexed me horribly by getting married—in secret besides—I had given her a large sum as a wedding present. And I had done her the favour of not telling Papa about her condition.

  In thanks, I was the unwitting victim of collusion. My family and Crow decided I should not know which day was her final day, so as not to send me to bed weeping at the mere thought of it. And so, one day she simply did not come back. I expressed my dismay to all who would listen, but in truth, I welcomed their intervention. In a life full of lasts I had embraced a method of self-preservation: I did best if I did not allow myself to acknowledge the last of anything until after the fact. For some reason, then, it was easier to accept. It was a game I played with myself, for I knew what I was doing when I refused my thoughts to think beyond the moment, to enter that bastion where the last designation resided. And yet, by not allowing them full access to wallow in that label, I gained enough strength to get through, to carry on into the time beyond the last.

  I heard two sets of feet upon the stairs. I braced myself for disappointment, not that the looks of a maid had anything to do with her true dispensation. Crow had given every appearance of gentleness, and yet had come to assert a great authority over me, like a parent to a child. At age thirty-eight I knew this was an odd arrangement—especially when it was preferred by the one subjugated—but I did not require or request a maid who slunk into the shadows as if fearful I would bite.

  Henrietta led the woman into my room. “Well now. Here we are. Ba, Elizabeth, I would like you to meet Elizabeth Wilson. Wilson, my sister, Elizabeth Barrett.”

  Wilson did a little bob for a curtsy and blushed. “Two Elizabeths,” she said, adding, “Miss.”

  Yes. Well. I decided not to mention that Crow’s first name had been Elizabeth too.

  On a whim, I pointed to the window and said, “Would you please close that?”

  Wilson did—after bumping a shin on the edge of the sofa and nearly knocking a bluebird figurine to the floor. The window closed and she turned towards me, her face begging for affirmation.

  I did not give it to her. For the window had been a test. It was a warm day in May and the breeze was necessary on this, the top floor of the house. Crow would have given me a look, shook her head, and said, “You will not have that window closed, Miss Elizabeth. I will not have you expiring from lack of air.”

  That Wilson had acquiesced to my request was understandable and yet . . . I did not want acquiescence. I wanted . . .

  What did I want?

  “May I leave you now?” Henrietta asked. “I have some shopping to do.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. “Thank you. We shall be fine.”

  Wilson’s expression looked as though the thought of being left alone with me would be anything but fine. Her face took on the expression of a child left with a stern headmistress or a demanding stepmother.

  “We shall be fine,” I repeated for her benefit.

  She quickly nodded. “I will do my best, mistress. But I am afraid it is nobody equal to Miss Crow.”

  Mrs. Treherne now.

  It was a true enough statement, but her humility made me take pity.

  “We will learn this together, Wilson.”

  “I am willing to learn, mistress.”

  Good. “Then the first thing you can do is open the window.”

  She looked confused.

  I tried to explain. “You must learn what is best for me, Wilson, even when I proceed otherwise.”

  She looked even more confused.

  I tried to explain. “If left to my own devices I will take too much morphine, go to bed far too late, and talk as long as I like, none of which are to my ultimate advantage.”

  It took her a moment, but I saw recognition in her eyes. Yes, yes, although I was a grown woman, old enough to be Wilson’s mother, in action I was a disobedient child who needed scolding on occasion, reminders of right action when I proceeded otherwise, and stern direction when appropriate.

  “Oh,” she said with a nod.

  I could not tell whether she disapproved of my weaknesses—as I certainly disapproved of them—but she seemed willing to accept them, and address them.

  Perhaps she would work out after all. If we both behaved.

  SEVEN

  I held them in my hands. It had been six years since I had experienced such a thrill. I traced my fingers along the simple title of the two volumes, which was set in gold against the dark green covers: Poems. “They are beautiful,” I whispered.

  “They are long overdue.” It had been Cousin John Kenyon who’d brought me the first box of my newest publication. Without his influence and his prodding Edward Moxon, the publisher, I knew the books would never have become a reality. After all, just two years previous hadn’t Mr. Moxon declared my work “uncommercial”? The only thing that had changed between then and now was having John as my champion—and becoming a better writer. For this work was superior to my last, The Seraphim. It was fuller, freer, and stronger, and worth three times over.

  Opening the front cover and spotting the dedication, I immediately regretted not dedicating the volumes to my dear cousin. Instead I had given the dedication—once again—to Papa. An odd thought skittered across my mind regarding my motive for penning the lengthy bit of adoration. Had I hoped to gain someth
ing through my choice? A special blessing? A paternal dispensation?

  John interrupted my musings. “Now, to get it out to the masses,” he said. “I assume you wish to send copies to Wordsworth, Landor, Carlyle, Miss Martineau . . .”

  “Do you think I should?”

  “Of course. Word of mouth is essential. And I will make sure the proper reviewers read it.”

  I shuddered at the thought, for although I longed for critical intercourse and took critique well, I also knew that I had no real inkling of whether or not the work was good—in other people’s eyes. And after Moxon had taken yet another chance on me . . . it had to be moderately successful, for his sake. And for my own. For if there ever was to be another book . . .

  Would there be another book? I worked at poetry—it was not for me a reverie, but art. Writing was my life, and until my body succumbed I would allow my mind full release and expression. God willing.

  Of course, being able to show Papa some sizable royalties would also be a thrill. To show him that I too could contribute to our family’s sustenance would be nearly as exciting as holding the books.

  John took his usual seat by the fireplace. “Of course we could implement a marketing strategy like your friend Mr. Horne did with his Orion. We could instruct Mr. Moxon to sell the book for only a farthing—with no change given.”

  I took up the well-known anecdote where he left off. “And no one will be allowed more than two copies.”

  “And if anyone does not say the title correctly, they will be denied purchase and sent away empty-handed.”

  Although we laughed at the details, the astonishing point remained: Richard’s ploy had worked. The illusion that a reader might not get a copy had enticed sales and Orion was a success. On that success Richard had ventured to publish his New Spirit tome—which had not enjoyed success at all, either critically or financially.

  “So,” John said, with a dangle of his foot. “Are you fulfilled?”

  It was an odd choice of words. “Because of this book?”

  “You are a writer. An author. Surely there is no higher achievement.”