by Nancy Moser
Robert glanced towards the door, and I feared he wished to rush away from me, my pain and regret too heady for him to bear within our friendship. Yet as soon as he spoke, I knew the reason for his look to the door.
“Is this why your family lives together under one roof? Why your father is so . . . so . . .”
I guessed what he was thinking, and I chastised myself for previously feeding his opinion of a harsher father than dear Papa deserved. “You must not make an unjust opinion out of what I said today. Perhaps it would have been better if I had not said it apart from all context in that way. But you could not long be a friend of mine without knowing and seeing what lies upon the surface and hides below.”
“And I am truly grateful that you trust me enough to share what sits so heavily upon your heart. But your family should not blame—”
I interrupted, ignored his accusation, and attempted to explain our unique situation. “Living all together as we do . . . every now and then there must of course be a crossing and vexation—but in one’s mere pleasures and fantasies, one would rather be crossed and vexed a little than vex a person one loves. And it is possible to get used to the harness and run easily in it.” I looked to the books upon the shelves. “There is a side-world to hide one’s thoughts in, and the word literature has, with me, covered a good deal of liberty which is never inquired about.”
“Are you saying they leave you alone?”
“Within my work I am my own mistress.”
“But the rest . . . ?”
“It has happened throughout my life by accident—as far as anything is by accident—that my own sense of right and happiness on any important point has never run contrary to the way of obedience required of me. While in things of lesser import, I and all of us are apt to act with shut doors and windows, without waiting for discernment or permission.” My thoughts flew upon the times my siblings and I had wanted to ask Papa for something but had chosen not to. And yet sometimes, at rare times, we had continued on within our own will—aside from Papa’s knowledge. “And this last is the worst of it all. To be forced into concealments from the heart naturally nearest to us, and forced away from the natural source of counsel and strength is . . .” I could not say more.
“I do not like hiding my presence from your family, your father in particular,” Robert said. “I do not wish to be covert or cause you to be.”
He still did not understand the necessity of it. The delicate nature of it all, the fragile balance. “All my brothers are constrained bodily into submission—apparent submission at least—by that worst and most dishonouring of necessities, the necessity of living. Every one of them all, except myself, is dependent in money matters on the inflexible will of . . . Do you see?”
“I think I see very clearly. You are beholden. Obligated.”
Yes, and yet . . . “But what you do not see, what you cannot see, is the deep tender affection behind and below all those patriarchal ideas of governing grown-up children ‘in the way they must go.’ There never was—under the strata—a truer affection in a father’s heart, nor a worthier heart in itself, a heart loyaler and purer, and more compelling to gratitude and reverence, than his.”
Robert looked at me askance, not believing.
“The evil is in the system, and Papa simply takes it to be his duty to rule, and to make us happy according to his own views of the propriety of happiness. He takes it to be his duty to rule like the kings of Christendom, by divine right. But he loves us through and through it—and I, for one . . .” I paused. “I love him.”
“That is laudable. You are a good daughter.”
I shook my head to negate his compliment. “When, five years ago, I lost what I loved best in the world beyond comparison and rivalship . . . everyone who knew me also knew Bro was my first and chiefest affection. When I lost that, I felt that Papa stood the nearest to me on the closed grave, or by the unclosing sea.”
“It is natural to lean on relatives amidst a crisis.”
No! Robert still did not understand! “I will tell you that not only has Papa been kind and patient and forbearing to me through the tedious trial of this illness—far more trying to standers-by like you than one can imagine—but that he was generous and forbearing in that hour of bitter trial, and never reproached me as he might have done. My own soul has not spared me as much. Never once has he said to me, then or since, that if it had not been for me, the crown of his house would not have fallen. He never did . . . and he might have said it, and more, and I could not have answered except to say that I had paid my own price, and that the price I paid was greater than his loss.”
“Of course he did not condemn you. Your brother’s death was not your fault!”
“You must see how it was, Robert. I said horrible things to him that day. I told him I had no need for him. So you see, not with my hand but my heart I was the cause of that misery. I am the one who made him flee in anger. And though not with the intention of my heart, but with its weakness . . . I am to blame. That no one has accused me face-to-face is their virtue.”
Robert stood, his head shaking again. “No, I think—you will pardon me, Miss Barrett—but I think you have it all wrong. That you wished for your brother to stay on with you in Torquay reveals your love for each other, your devotion. I am certain he enjoyed your time together as much as you. That he suffered a horrible fate is neither due to your desire to have him with you, nor his choice to go upon the boat that day—on a lovely, still sea. It just happened. And that your family, knowing of your guilt and pain, has not added to the pain by accusing you directly . . . ? Do you not realize by their silence they cause pain enough? For if they truly loved you—as I love you—they would not allow your guilt to exist in any form. They would have dispelled it upon the first embrace and tear. And that . . .” He blinked a few times and seemed to come out of his anger and return to me fully. He sat by my side. “I apologize for being so forthright and bold. I have no right. I only do it from a sincere desire to see you happy and free from this burden.”
I believed him, and I found myself oddly fortified by his understanding. He was my champion, if only to my ears alone.
I had never had a champion—not since Bro . . .
I paced my room, the nerves within my stomach making idleness impossible.
For the past month there had been talk of my going abroad for the winter. Papa leaned towards Malta, but Cousin John and I preferred Pisa. Of course, I had not told Papa as much.
I was a coward—or had been until this day. Yet the consequences of being spineless took their toll, preventing me from true rest and erasing any issues but this.
But today . . . I had called in reinforcements. Although I had not needed Dr. Chambers’ services for many weeks, today he was visiting at my request, for reasons other than tinctures and elixirs. Today, I needed for him to tell Papa that—
Hearing feet upon the stairs, I swung towards the opened door.
But it was only George.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
“No.”
“You’re doing the right thing, Ba, an amazing thing for . . .”
“For me.”
“An amazing thing for any of us to do.”
I had the sudden image of my siblings gathered on the lower landing, listening intently to every word. “I do not wish to make a spectacle, or to be eavesdropped upon.”
“Oh, let them listen if they wish,” he said. “Perhaps they can learn a few things about . . .” He shrugged.
“Taking a stand, even though it will surely come to nothing?”
He took my hands in his and looked at me intently. “Taking a stand because it is the right thing to do.” He gave my hands an extra squeeze. “I am here to help you, Ba. I will do everything I can for you.”
And I knew he would. I also knew that my going abroad for a few months was not the issue. It was a means to a process that could aid all of them in the future. As the oldest child, was it my duty to pave the way f
or all of them? The pressure to succeed pressed against me with new strength.
I heard men’s voices below. Papa and Dr. Chambers came up the stairs. I grabbed George’s arm for support, but was determined not to meet them in my usual position—reclined upon the sofa or bed. Heavenly Father, please give me the strength I need. . . . I did not ask God for specific results for this meeting, feeling that gaining strength to get through it well was enough of a request.
Dr. Chambers was the first to make a greeting. “Well, well, what do we have here? My favourite patient up and about?”
“I have been feeling quite well of late,” I said. “And I wish to stay that way through the hard winter.” I did not risk a look at Papa.
“Indeed,” Dr. Chambers said. “And if you had gone to a warm clime during previous winters, I would guess you would be completely well by now.” He turned towards my father. “I have prescribed it for years.”
Papa indicated we all should sit. Papa and Dr. Chambers took the chairs by the fireplace, and George took the small seat beside my sofa. I sat upon said sofa but kept my feet upon the floor.
“It was always Elizabeth’s decision not to go away,” Papa said. “Even when Cousin Kenyon and Mrs. Jameson encouraged her to go abroad, she always insisted she was just as well off in her own room here. She indicated it was not worth the trouble.”
“A very compliant daughter indeed,” Dr. Chambers said. “But I do believe there would be probable benefit for a winter in Pisa, or perhaps Madeira.”
“Father had mentioned Malta,” George interjected.
Probable benefit? This was not strong language. What happened to Dr. Chambers’ past assertions that my life depended on it?
“She seems well enough now,” Papa said.
Dr. Chambers smiled at me. “I am very pleased with her progress. What have you been doing to elicit such a change?”
“I—”
Papa interrupted me. “That she is here at home, and in better health, is proof enough that a trip away from the family and her home is not needed.”
“But, Papa . . .”
He looked at me—the first time he had acknowledged my presence.
“Yes?” he asked.
A wave of fear sped from my heart to my feet and back again. All my carefully rehearsed statements fled and my mind was vacant.
Papa dismissed me by turning his attention back to Dr. Chambers. “When I allowed her to leave the family and go to Torquay, it was in response to a horrible physical breakdown. There was no recourse but for her to seek relief in warmer climes. But now . . .” He swiped a hand across the air between us as if I were a slightly disgusting specimen. “She is well enough. There is no need to cause another upheaval.”
My heart slammed against my chest and I wanted to scream, “This is reason enough for another upheaval: this awful feeling of confinement, of panic that I will never escape.”
“See?” Papa said, dismissing my silence as acquiescence. “She is fine here.”
I moved forward on the cushion, putting my weight more keenly upon my legs and feet, which had the extra support of the floor beneath them. “Escaping the English winter will be everything to me. It involves the comfort and usefulness of the rest of my life.”
Papa’s eyebrow rose.
I looked to Dr. Chambers and pressed a hand on my chest. “Is it not true, Doctor, that one lung is very slightly affected, but my nervous system is absolutely shattered?”
“Well, yes. Your lungs are still not strong.”
I took further strength from his words. “I must go away because the cold weather acts on the lungs and produces the weakness indirectly, whereas the necessary shutting up indoors acts on the nerves. Italy would be a means of escape from these evils. God has opened the door of escape for me, and I must take it.”
I looked at Papa, hoping he would grab on to the chance of helping me regain my health. Then I thought of something else. I reached over and put a hand upon George’s knee. “A brother can go with me. Surely one of the younger boys would benefit from the outing.”
Papa did not stun me with words but with something more terrible: dead silence.
And then he began to study me as only he was able. I felt he knew my thoughts and feelings through such calculated scrutiny. I had to look away. For if he were successful in discerning my innermost motivation, all would be lost.
Finally he spoke. “You do not wish to leave for the benefit of health alone.”
It was a statement—one I wished I had not heard and did not have to answer—one I could not answer. I loved Robert and he loved me. And with that love came a desire, yes, even a need, to move beyond the life I had been living into something new. But Papa thought I was beyond such feelings, and if he discovered that they did indeed exist within me, that they had been awakened by a man—a man other than him . . .
The gates of Wimpole Street would do more than close, they would be barred and locked. Forever.
I attempted a smile, yet felt its weak and tenuous state. “I would like to see Italy. My brothers have been abroad and so I—”
Papa sprang from his chair. “So it is not for your health you wish to go.”
His eyes flashed with a gravity that scared me, and my greatest desire moved away from Pisa and became more immediate. I desired that he would leave, that all would exit my room and leave me alone in it. My head was hurting and I felt my strength dissipate. I longed to lean back against the sofa, close my eyes, and let the day fall around me as it might.
George spoke up. “I think it would be a good idea for her to go, Papa. She will surely get better there and—”
“She is better here.”
“But with the winter comes the cold, and Ba has never handled cold well and—”
“She has survived well enough.”
“But even Dr. Chambers has said that a winter in a warm climate will be of benefit.”
“Probable benefit,” Papa said, with a glance at Dr. Chambers.
The doctor turned red, and I could tell he wished he could take his noncommittal words back and replace them with those of more strength.
George tried again. “Ba has asked for so little of you that I think—”
“You think? You think?” Papa rushed to George’s chair and stood over him like a vulture over its prey. “I do not ask my children to think! I ask them to obey and appreciate the sacrifices I make for them.” He took a step back to include me in his tirade. “What is this undutifulness and rebellion of everyone in this house?”
I was appalled. I had never been undutiful to him, nor rebellious. I put him above all others and had lived my life to please him. My pride caused me to speak out. “I mean no disrespect, Papa. I merely wish to sit in the Italian sun and find solace there.”
“Solace? There? You find no solace here, under my roof? Is your life here so horrific, so intolerable that you would go against my wishes to achieve your escape?”
Yes. No. I . . . I didn’t know what to say to him. Never had I meant to hurt him or to disparage the home he provided, nor the love he bestowed upon us.
I stood to go to him and apologize, but he waved me back to my seat. “Fine.” He spat the word. “I am done with it. For my part I wash my hands of you altogether. Do as you wish.”
He stormed from the room, leaving the rest of us in stunned silence. Dr. Chambers stood and came to my side. He took my hand and looked down at me with apologetic eyes. “I am so sorry. I should have been more forceful.”
“No, no,” I said. “It is not your fault.”
He nodded his good-bye and left me alone with George.
“Well, then,” George said.
“There is no well to it,” I said. “I have wounded him.”
“He will recover. You have received permission. Focus on that victory.”
I shook my head. “There is no victory. I can never go now.”
George knelt before me, placing his hands firmly upon my knees. “This is his way, Ba. You kn
ow it. He argues his case, then pretends to give in, knowing that we will never go against his initial wish.”
“I know. And so I cannot go.”
George rose and peered at the empty doorway. “But perhaps you should go anyway. Whether you stay or go there will be displeasure just the same. And the irritation will exhaust and smooth itself away. It always does. You are his favourite, Ba. This might be the time to capitalize on that.”
The slightest hint of hope entered the chaos of my mind. Could I go anyway? Papa had given permission. Of a sort.
George leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Think about it. This is your chance, Ba. It might be your only chance.”
I finally had the room alone—just as I had wanted. And yet in the silence was confusion. What should I do?
And then I knew. Robert. I had to tell Robert about it. The moments of my life were not complete until he was a part of them. I would write him.
Robert would know what to do.
“How nice of you to invite me on this outing,” I told my brother Stormie.
“The . . . the day is f-f-f-air and I j-j-just thought . . .”
Stormie always stammered, and did so more when under stress. Since the day was overcast and the air carried an autumn nip . . . there had to be a reason beyond fresh air that he wished to take me out—alone.
Although I didn’t want to dampen the day, my curiosity forced me to ask, “What bothers you, Stormie?”
“Your trip.”
“To Pisa. Yes. I hope to go. You and I and Arabel will have a great time of it. I will make certain of it.”
He shook his head.
“What?”
“Papa . . . we cannot g-g-go.”
“Who cannot go?”
He pointed to himself, then added, “Ara-b-b-bel t-t-too.”
I clamped a hand upon his knee. “Papa forbid you to go?”
He nodded. “N-none of us.”
“But if none of my siblings are allowed to accompany me, then what use is my gaining his permission?”