How Do I Love Thee?

by Nancy Moser

  Robert tucked my head beneath his chin. “We cannot risk it, wife. I will not have your father steal you away to some hiding place where I might never find you. Our plans are nearly in place. Next Saturday, my love. We must hold off until then. One week.”

  He was so calm about it all, so controlled. So rational. I pulled back in order to see him. “Do you not wish to be with me now, Robert?”

  A wry laughed escaped him. He pressed his lips into my hair and whispered his words against it. “Oh, my dearest Ba, my lovely wife, you have no idea how much I want to whisk you away to some private place.”

  I felt myself blush but shared his desire. I stared down at his silky cravat, and at the pewter buttons upon his burgundy vest, and envied their station, touching him, being so near . . .

  Wilson cracked open the church door, and though she did not speak, I saw the furrow of her brow and knew her concern. “I must be getting back,” I said. I sighed deeply and looked once more towards Jesus near the altar. Give me strength, O Lord. By my very prayer, I found it answered. To Robert I said, “Well, dearest, here we shall go. Necessity makes heroes— and heroines.”

  And so we left the church. Each one separate. Each one alone.

  For a time.

  I awakened with a start as my door flung open and my brothers rushed into the room like the sea through a break in a dike.

  Sette sat upon the end of my bed and bounced to further wake me. “Why are you not awake yet, Ba? It is afternoon.”

  “I—”

  Occy sat beside Sette. “Since she’s such a sleepyhead, we should ignore her opinion about where to live, don’t you think, George?”

  George was not a kidder and took the question seriously. “No, no. That wouldn’t be right. Ba is the eldest. She deserves a say.”

  Henry perused the bookshelves. “You should get rid of most of these, Ba. Dusty old things. Papa wants the house to be cleaned, and so he should have them start here.”

  Stormie came to my rescue. “N-n-n-no. Th-those are B-ba’s.”

  Alfred draped himself in an armchair. “She can’t take them with her, that’s for certain.”

  It had all happened so fast, with my mind still mired from sleep, that for a moment I thought he was speaking of my not taking all my books with me to Italy.

  Then, to add to the commotion, Arabel and Henrietta came in with two female friends from Herefordshire, and also Mary Trepsack, a friend with whom I was to dine the next day.

  How I wished I could tell my sisters—and only them—about my marriage. But I dared not, for if I betrayed one pang, I should involve them so deeply in the grief of hurting our father, which otherwise remained mine alone.

  And then, as icing to a bitter cake, Mr. Kenyon came in, looked at me, and said, “When did you see Browning?”

  I felt my colour change, and I knew it was there for all to see, but I managed, “He was here on Friday.” Then quickly, I looked to my sisters and said, “How many trunks are you going to move?”

  And so the conversation sped away from dangerous ground.

  Yet as my brothers and the girls chattered on, I did not dare to cry out against the noise.

  But Arabel . . . she seemed to see through my reticence. She looked at me so intently and so gravely . . .

  I could do nothing but look away. And as I sat up and adjusted my bedclothes around me, I had such a morbid fear of exciting a suspicion I was smitten with a pain in my head that seemed to split it in two, one half for each shoulder.

  Suddenly some bells began to ring and one girl asked, “What bells are those?”

  Henrietta answered. “St. Marylebone Church.”

  I nearly fainted. But then, as conversation resumed, I found strength in the bells. They were not ringing to ensnare or condemn me, but to remind me of the momentous sacrament that had taken place the day before.

  This morning I should have awakened in my husband’s arms, to all silence but for the beating of his heart against my ear. It was he alone I wished to see and speak with. All this commotion was of another world, an old world. My past.

  My husband was my future.

  But to get on with that future, I had to get through the present.

  With the bells still ringing in my ears, I sat back and let the cacophony of the others swell around me but not through me. I was not a part of it. I was separate from the rest—as I had always been—yet now my uniqueness stemmed from a new purpose and a new title.

  Mrs. Robert Browning.

  FIFTEEN

  I know the effort you made, the pain you bore for my sake! I tell you, once and forever, your proof of love to me is made. I know your love, my dearest, dearest Ba: my whole life shall be spent in trying to furnish such a proof of my affection, such a perfect proof, and perhaps vainly spent—but I will endeavour with God’s help.

  I tucked Robert’s letter into the satchel I would carry to our escape. In the past six days I had read it a dozen times, letting his declaration of love give me strength.

  We had not seen each other the entire week. To do so as man and wife when we were not free to act . . . that would have brought the more pain. And so a few letters had sufficed. Not enough, but to some degree.

  I had not spent the week lolling in my misery but fighting through it. Robert had written that he had awakened on the morning after our wedding fully free of the headache that had plagued him on and off for two years. What have you been doing to me, Ba?

  Indeed. Had I been the cause of his pain then, even as now I was its cure?

  But alas, what was relinquished from him, came to me. In years past I would have spent the week in bed, nursing the pain in my head, surrendering to it. But now I could do no such thing. There was too much packing and planning.

  Not that I was taking much with me. Do not trouble yourself with more than is strictly necessary, Ba. You can supply all wants at Leghorn or Pisa. Let us be as unencumbered with luggage as possible. The expense (beside the common sense of a little luggage) is considerable; every ounce being paid for . . .

  This necessity for less had stung harder than I liked to admit. I always claimed that things held little import. But assessing the contents of my room and realizing they represented the contents of my life heretofore . . .

  I was attached the least to the clothing. Fashion had never been a burning fire. Since Bro’s death, black upon black had been my couture. It was the books that caused me the most consternation, for each one elicited a memory and represented some benchmark in my quest for knowledge. Why the heaviest items in my possession were also the ones I most wished to keep . . .

  Yet it was not even the logistics of packing up a life that strained me the most, but fear.

  Firstly, I worried that someone from the newspapers would peruse the church registry, find our names there, and fill a column with gossip. Robert tried to assure me: For the prying penny-a-liners . . . trust to Providence, we must! I do not apprehend much danger.

  Trust in God. Yes, yes, that is what I clung to. That, and the love of Robert’s family, who knew the truth. That they could love me when I was taking their son away . . . Robert’s mother was not feeling well, and the thought of inflicting more pain on her by having our secret found out before we were safe in Italy made each day excruciating. For even though I had never met any of them, I loved them for their goodness. Dear kind souls.

  Such love transfigured me and shamed me for my own father’s lack.

  What consumed the week were the letters I needed to write to my family, to tell them . . .

  I took a moment to look at the letter I had written to George, ready in an envelope but not sealed. There was still time to change it. . . .

  I throw myself on your affection for me and beseech God that it may hold under the weight. Dearest George, go to your room and read this letter. After reading it . . . George, dear George, read the enclosed letter for my dearest Papa, and then, gently breaking the news of it, give it to him to read. If you have any affection for me, Georg
e, dearest George, let me hear a word—at Orleans—let me hear. I will write. I bless you, I love you.

  I am

  Your Ba

  The letter to Papa . . . I could not read it again. Whatever words I had used would be ineffectual and do nothing to stem his fury. If only I did not love him. He had good and high qualities after all; he was my father above all.

  He had once called me the purest woman he ever knew, which had made me smile, or laugh, I believe, because I understood perfectly what he meant by that—that I had not troubled him with the iniquity of love affairs, or any impropriety of seeming to think about being married. But now, the whole gender would go down with me to the perdition of faith in any of us. The effect of my wickedness would be, “Those women!”

  I had hoped I would have had the courage to address him face-to-face and say, “With the exception of this act, I have submitted to the least of your wishes all my life long, Papa. Set the life against the act, and forgive me for the sake of the daughter you once loved.” Surely I could have said that and then reminded him of the long-suffering I had endured, and entreated him to pardon the happiness which had come at last.

  But no. If I had spoken, he would have wished I had died years ago. As for the storm . . . it would come and endure a lengthy time. Eventually, perhaps, he would forgive us. That was my hope.

  The family was moving to Little Bookham on Monday next. I had never heard of it, but learned it was six miles from the nearest railroad and a mile and a half from Leatherhead, where a coach ran. Father was successfully moving us to a nether land, which further pressed the necessity of our prompt escape.

  That the entire family was packing was another blessing from God, for their actions covered my own.

  Robert was taking just a carpetbag and a portmanteau and so I would leave my books behind, leaving room in my own bag and suitcase for the necessities of living. But his letters . . . I took them with me, let the “ounces” cry aloud. I tried to leave them, and could not. They would not be left; it was not my fault. I will not be scolded.

  In just a few hours I would be gone. It was dreadful, dreadful, to have to give pain by a voluntary act—for the first time in my life—but so be it. Through God’s sacrament my loyalties transferred to my husband, and his to me. Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.

  Wilson came to the door of my room, her brow moist. “Miss? We must leave. The coast is clear—for now.” She snapped her fingers and Flush ran to her. He was ready to go.

  As for me . . .

  I let necessity dictate the length of my good-bye. With one final glance across the room that I had once called my sanctum, I moved to the stairs and away, keeping my mind focused on the sanctuary I would find within my husband’s arms.

  We were the perfect pair. I was nervous, frightened, ashamed, agitated, happy, and vulnerable. And Robert was imaginative, captivating, kind, witty, wise (though foolish in just the right places), charming, and giddily happy.

  The whirlwind of our travels from London to Paris left us without sleep for the first two days, exhausted either by the sea or the sorrow of what we left behind and how it had to be accomplished. First, there was a stagecoach, then a boat across the Channel to Le Havre, then a coach again to Rouen, arriving at one in the morning. There, we were told our luggage had to continue on to Paris, so we were not even allowed to rest but for a short time in the travelers’ room. Robert carried me into the room, eliciting odd glances from the other travelers gathered there. Who was this weakened woman accompanied by a man, a maid, and a dog?

  I left their curiosity unfulfilled and took a little coffee as refreshment. I was not able to wallow in the solidity of being inert, because our diligence was leaving . . .

  On to Paris. I lost my mind a bit that night, tucked into the carriage, seeing the five horses, then seven, all looking wild and loosely harnessed. Some of them white, some brown, some black, with the manes leaping as they galloped and the white reins dripping down over their heads . . .such a fantastic scene in the moonlight.

  I knew I was a little feverish with the fatigue and the violence done to myself in the self-control of the previous few days, and began to see it all as in a vision and to wonder whether I was in or out of the body. But I was adamant to keep moving. I was the surprising force behind our frenetic pace, for I had a feverish desire to go on as if there would be neither peace nor health till we were beyond the Alps. It was as if Papa were after us, trying to catch me to bring me home, where he would shut me in my room and throw away the key forever.

  His image, his words of anger, his feeling of betrayal . . .

  We finally arrived in Paris on Monday at ten in the morning. Robert found us the first hotel we came upon and we fell into sleep. Upon waking, he sent word to our friend Mrs. Jameson and her niece, Gerardine, who were staying at a hotel nearby. They did not know we were coming, did not know we were married, but Robert and I had discussed the idea of their traveling with us the rest of the way to Italy. Months ago she had offered to take me along with them. . . .

  The note gave the hotel’s address and was purposely cryptic: Come to see your friend and my wife EBB . . . RB.

  “Did the note say enough?” I asked him later. “Perhaps she does not know who EBB and RB are. Will she come?”

  “She will come. For curiosity’s sake, if nothing else,” Robert said.

  And he was right. She sent word she would come that evening.

  I awaited her arrival with great trepidation. Mrs. Jameson—friend or no—would be the first person I would encounter who would judge our marriage. Would she see it as right or wrong? With anger or joy?

  At the appointed time there was a knock on the door. My heart tried to break through my chest. Robert answered the door and—

  In swept Anna with her hands stretched out and eyes open as wide as Flush’s.

  “Can it be possible? Is it possible?” she said as her niece watched from the doorway. “You wild, dear creatures.”

  I received her embrace with an equal dose of surprise and relief.

  Never one to remain silent, she said, “Two poets, wed . . . each of you should have married a good provider to keep you reasonable.”

  Robert opened his mouth to speak, but Anna continued. “But no matter. You are a wise man in doing so, and you are a wise woman, let the world say as it pleases. I shall dance for joy both on earth and in heaven.” She looked at me, then at Robert. “My dear, dear friends.”

  I was taken speechless. For her to be happy for us . . . God was good and abundantly merciful.

  She took a seat upon a chair and pointed to the footstool as place for her niece, Gerardine—a girl of thirteen or fourteen—to sit upon. “So then. How long are you in Paris?”

  “Not long at all,” Robert said. “We travel on towards Italy immediately and—”

  Anna shook her head, her finger wagging at him. “No, no, no, Robert. That will never do. Have you not looked upon your new bride?” She laughed. “Looked with the eyes of a stranger, not the eyes of a man in love? For she looks frightfully ill.”

  Do I? I put my hands to my face, wondering at the paleness of my skin. I was never one to linger in front of a mirror and had only glanced at myself. But as Anna’s words fell upon our company, I realized what she said was true. I was nearly spent. I had come this far across sea and land with fear driving me on and on and on.

  “Look upon her, Robert,” Anna said. “See that I am right in insisting you stay in Paris a short while. Italy will keep.”

  Robert came to my side. “Would you like to stay here, dearest?”

  Anna broke in. “Not here, Robert. I will get you a room at the Hotel de la Ville de Paris, where I am staying.” She stood. “You simply cannot leave Paris without seeing the sights. The Louvre, my dear,” she said to me. “You have not lived until you have seen the divine Raphaels.” She fluttered her hands beside her head. “Unspeakable.”

&n
bsp; I looked up at Robert. “I suppose we could stay a few days.”

  “Excellent!” Anna crossed to the door, with her niece trailing dutifully after. “Leave the arrangements to me. And you, you concentrate on getting to know one another.” With a wink she left us.

  We remained silent a moment, stunned at the contrast between Anna’s tumultuous presence and her absence. “We never asked them to join us in our travels,” Robert said.

  “Do we still wish for that?” I asked with a laugh.

  He considered a moment. “It would be advantageous to have such a well-traveled companion. It might ease . . . It might make things easier, all in all.”

  I read between the lines. Although Robert and I knew each other well, in the past two days I had seen signs that the reality of my care had been overwhelming to him. If Anna could ease that burden for my husband . . .

  And the idea of rest. Just a few days, to regain my strength. If it would keep me from getting ill . . . I did not want that burden upon anyone. I had waited too long for this release, this freedom, this joy, to risk losing it but for an act of common sense.

  “Let us stay, Robert. And when the time is right, we shall ask Anna to join us as we proceed to Italy.”

  He nodded with vigor and I knew my acquiescence—my firm decision—was a relief.

  The first fatigue has passed and the change and the sense of the Thing Done and the constant love have done me good. I am well, dear sisters, living as in a dream, loving and being loved better every day, seeing near in him all that I seemed to see afar. Thinking with one thought, pulsing with one heart. He says he loves me better than he ever did, and we live such a quiet yet new life, it is like riding an enchanted horse.

  “Come, dearest,” Robert said from the door to our hotel room. “It is time to go.”

  Go. Leave our two weeks in Paris and travel on towards Italy. Leave our leisurely walks, dining with friends in restaurants, or just sharing some bread, butter, and coffee in our room. Leave lying alone together each night, watching the stars rise over the high Paris houses, telling each other childish happy things, and making grand schemes for future work.