How Do I Love Thee? Read online

  Books by

  NANCY MOSER

  FROM BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  Mozart’s Sister

  Just Jane

  Washington’s Lady

  How Do I Love Thee?

  NANCY MOSER

  A Novel

  How Do I Love Thee?

  Copyright © 2009

  Nancy Moser

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Moser, Nancy.

  How do I love thee? / Nancy Moser.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0501-9 (pbk.)

  1. Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 1806–1861—Fiction. 2. Browning, Robert, 1812–1889—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3563.O88417H69 2009

  813'.54—dc22

  2009005413

  TO MARK

  How do I love thee?

  Let me count the ways.

  NANCY MOSER is the bestselling author of twenty novels, including Just Jane, the Christy Award–winning Time Lottery, and the SISTER CIRCLE series coauthored with Campus Crusade co-founder Vonette Bright.

  Nancy has been married thirty-three years. She and her husband have three grown children and live in the Midwest. She loves history, has traveled extensively in Europe, and has performed in various theaters, symphonies, and choirs.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Fact or Fiction in How Do I Love Thee?

  Discussion Questions for How Do I Love Thee?

  Sonnets From the Portuguese

  ONE

  “I will die soon.”

  My brother Edward leaned to an elbow on the company side of my bed. “Oh posh, Ba. You’ve been dying for years and you are still with us.”

  He was right. Although I had celebrated a childhood of good health, the journey through my teen years, my twenties, and now my thirties had been greatly spent in a position of recline. And decline.

  Bro popped a grape into his mouth and sighed. “No one can die here, Ba. Torquay is the happiest place in southern England. The sea will not allow such talk. So I must insist you desist.” The grape met its demise and another was plucked as Bro’s next victim.

  I pulled my shawl closer, leaned back against the pillows, and gazed out the window at the sea sparkling in the May sunshine. We had come here in 1838, and though our initial intent was to stay only one winter here, we had spent nearly two years away from our family’s home in London, partaking of the salt air that was supposed to make me well. The situation had transpired due to an ultimatum from Dr. Chambers. He had informed Papa that if I were kept in London—with its soot and fog and unhealthy air—he would not be held responsible for the consequences. And so Papa had relented.

  But unfortunately, in requiring such attention, two of my siblings had to accompany me: Henrietta as my helper and Edward as our chaperon. Other family came and went, and at times there was more family here than in London. I knew the situation was the subject of much tension back home—which was unfortunate—but I was not in charge. Papa was. It was regrettable that propriety forced three of us to be pulled from the family home, but in truth, neither of the others seemed to mind as much as I.

  Henrietta—who, unlike me, found books and learning a bore—always discovered friends and society no matter where she was planted. And Bro . . . he was quite willing to lounge with me at Torquay if it prevented his being sent to our family’s plantation in Jamaica, where he would be forced to do more than paint a few watercolors and see to his poor sister’s happiness. As the Barrett heir, much was desired from Bro, although, alas, much was not expected. Bro took no interest in and had little aptitude towards carrying on the family business. It was as though he were waiting for Papa to make him interested and able. I loved him dearly, but I knew he was not distinguished among men. His heart was too tender for energy.

  When Papa had made murmurings that it was time for Bro to leave Torquay and take on some business responsibility, I, in a rare moment of assertiveness, had insisted he be left with me. To gain my own way, I had even sobbed, begging that Bro be allowed to stay. On his part, Bro, as a true alter ego, had declared that he loved me better than anyone and he would not leave me till I was well. But Papa . . . I never forgot Papa’s reply: “I consider it very wrong of you to exact such a thing, Ba.” I mourned his harsh words, but my desire—yea, my need—for Bro’s company allowed my shame only a short visit and was far outweighed by my delight in his presence.

  And all had worked out well. Our brother Charles—Stormie—had gone to Jamaica in Bro’s stead. So for now, we had received a reprieve.

  Jamaica . . . the thought of that awful place forced me to pull my eyes away from the calming view of the sea. For my most recent decline had been caused by the news that our brother Sam had died of fever there not three months previous—dead for two months before we even received word. Funny Sam, six years younger than I, boisterous and witty, though admittedly, a bit too fond of drink.

  Bro sat upright and pointed at me, making his finger dance an accusatory spiral. “And what is this? Sorrow in my sister’s eyes? I will not have it.”

  I adjusted the cuff of my mourning dress. “I was thinking of Sam.”

  He used the moment to state his case. “Do you see why I do not wish to go to Jamaica? If Sam succumbed to its temptations, I most surely would—”

  Temptations? I had only heard talk of fever. “What temptations?”

  I watched regret and panic play upon my favourite brother’s face. “I misspoke. Sam died of fever. That is all—”

  “Apparently that is not all. As the eldest I demand to know the truth.” My bluster was for show. I did not really want to hear the details. I was well aware of the peculiarities of my eight brothers and two sisters and loved them dearly, but in response to my familiarity with their characters, I oft preferred to turn a blind eye to their lesser qualities.

  In turn, Bro, who knew me too well, gave me only partial disclosure. “Papa has warned us boys of the lures that dwell in Jamaica. So far from home, with great responsibilities and no family close to offer support and guidance . . .” He sighed with great drama—as was his way. “Sam was . . . Sam.”

  “Ah.” I would let it remain at that. I pulled a volume of Balzac’s Le Père Goriot close. “I do long for the day when we can all be together again under one roof. Although I may have found benefit in Torquay at one time, now I am too weak to bear being away. I find it dreadful. Dreadful,” I repeated. “I am crushed, trodden down, and death nips at me from afar, but also from far too near.” I sat upright to gain Bro’s full attention. “What is there
to recommend this place when my own doctor has died here?”

  Bro looked confused. “Dr. Barry died months ago.”

  “Which makes his death from fever acceptable?”

  “It happens, Ba.”

  “He was the only doctor I liked as a person. Back in London, Dr. Chambers may be the doctor of the queen dowager, but I do not much like him. Nor others with fewer credentials. Only Dr. Barry was amiable enough for me to call friend.”

  Bro offered an incredulous look. “But was not Dr. Barry the doctor who scoffed at your habit of not rising until noon? Did he not command you to get up at an earlier hour and force you outside in the afternoon?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “And I hold to my feelings that rising at such an early hour is barbaric, and the fresh air made me fit for nothing.”

  “After ten days he declared you better.”

  Of this I could offer dispute. “He declared my lungs better, yet I felt far worse. I was in such lowness of spirits that I could have cried all day were there no exertion in crying.” I thought of Dr. Barry’s greatest sin against me. “He was aggravating in that he forbade me from deep study. As a result I was forced to bind my Plato to appear as a novel so he would not ban it from my room. And as for writing my poetry, he claimed the toil of it was too much of a strain. Toil? Writing is my life. It is not toil. And he cannot stop me.”

  “No. Now he cannot.”

  Bro could be so . . . so . . . concise. But I would not let him enjoy the victory. I had a point to make. “As I said, Dr. Barry moved me, and now that he has died, his passing grieves me.”

  Bro crossed his arms and gave me a look of smugness.

  I feigned ignorance, though I felt my cheeks grow warm. “Why do you look at me so?”

  “This doctor, whom you fought at every ford, moves you, and is mourned by you?”

  “In spite of our disparate views, he was the most amiable doctor I have ever employed.” I thought of another point. “And for him to die when he had a wife who was with child . . .”

  “ ’Tis a tragedy, I do not dispute that,” Bro said. “But it should not cause you to fear for your own demise . . . all this talk about death nipping at you.”

  He did not understand. The actual deaths of Sam and Dr. Barry reinforced the shortness of life. I thought of another example to add to my argument. “Then there is the death of Mrs. Hemans, a poetess like me—though of far further renown—dead at the age of forty-one. I am already four and thirty. The longest years do not seem available to writers of poetry.”

  Bro stood and set the plate of grapes aside with a roughness that caused many to fall upon the carpet. “Enough, Ba! Enough. Papa may have encouraged your grievous state with his lofty compliments of your ‘humble submission’ and ‘pious resignation,’ but I, for one, have had more than enough.”

  I was shocked by his outburst. During Papa’s month-long visit after Sam’s death, he had indeed applauded my bearing during my time of grief. I had never considered my behaviour as anything but appropriate and correct.

  Bro was not through with me. “Do you not realize that others in this family grieve too? That perhaps they are in need of Papa’s comfort as much as you?”

  He had never spoken to me like this. “Of course, I—”

  “Is not Henrietta’s grief equal—if not superior—to your own? Were not she and Sam as close as you and I are?”

  I felt my heart rumble in my chest. Conflict did not agree with me, especially if I was proved in the wrong. “I never thought—”

  “No, you did not.” Bro retrieved the grapes that had rolled to the edge of his shoes. He tossed them onto the plate. “We all loved our brother. We all grieve him. You do not have the exclusive privilege regarding that state.”

  Oh dear. I extended my hand towards his, sorely ashamed. Although I wished to blame my behaviour on the years of illness that had made me accustomed to close attention and measured words, I knew I should not fall back upon such excuses to the detriment of true, compassionate character. “I am sorry,” I said.

  With a small shake of his head, he came to my side of the bed, took my hand, and brought it to his lips. “And you are forgiven, now and always. You know that, Ba. As you have forgiven me a thousand faults, I can forgive your few.”

  My heart calmed, though I took selfish pleasure in knowing that he had required of me more cause for forgiveness than I him. Although I loved him more dearly than all the others, he was not a perfect man. Far from it. There was a wildness in Bro, a carelessness that often tried me and made me wonder why it was that I loved him best. Our connection was proof that love is blind and often comes unbidden and without conscious reason.

  As was his nature, Bro allowed the moment to be fully repaired and returned to his place on the other side of my bed. His countenance left his vexation behind and took on its more usual display of good humour and mischievousness.

  “Would you like to hear some gossip?” he asked.

  “Of course.” I was glad to leave our dissension behind. “About whom?”

  “About me.”

  I laughed. “One does not usually gossip about oneself; in fact, I am not even certain it is possible.”

  “It is when it concerns romance.”

  I tossed my book aside, needing full room to hear the next. “You are in love?”

  He shrugged and brought one bent leg fully onto the bed. “Perhaps.”

  “What’s her name?”

  He wagged a finger at me. “I will not say. As yet.”

  “That’s not fair,” I said. “You cannot tease—”

  “I always tease.”

  Bro took great pleasure in teasing me. But though I knew him to have an active social life, I had never heard of a romance.

  “Do you wish to marry her?” I asked.

  His smile faded. “My wishes will have little to do with the outcome.”

  My own smile faded. “But Papa would surely wish for the Barrett line to continue, and you are the oldest son. The ‘crown of his house.’ ”

  “At thirty-three, nearly too old. At this age Papa had already been married thirteen years and had eight children—or was it nine?” He wiped some dust off his shoe with the edge of his sleeve. “I will never understand why he forbids any of us to marry.”

  “He does not expressly forbid it,” I offered, for I was always the one to defend our father from all slights against his character. And yet . . . I knew my comment was a weak offering.

  “Oh no, there is no written decree,” Bro said, “though there might as well be.”

  I nodded my acquiescence. Ever since our mother had died when I was twenty-two—a complete surprise to us all—Papa had grown zealous in his desire for purity and chastity in his children. Although it was in conflict with his own choice to marry for love and the happy marriage that had ensued, his stand on the subject was a fortification that none of us children had been brave enough to breach. “Papa merely wishes to keep us from sin,” I reminded Bro.

  He stood once again and made his way to the window. “Marriage is a sacred trust. There is no sin in it, not if the couple loves one another.”

  I had never heard him speak of such emotions. “So you do love her?”

  He gazed out to sea. “Perhaps. Perhaps I could. If there was hope for a satisfactory end.”

  I thought of another complication regarding any of us ever marrying. “Is money . . . ?”

  Bro turned to face me. “Of course money is at issue. I have no means for financial stability without Papa’s intervention, and we both know that will not be forthcoming.”

  It was an insurmountable truth, at least for the near future. Some of my brothers were making their own ways financially—George was a lawyer, and the other boys were in various stages of their higher education with great hopes of gainful employment lying at their feet. Yet Bro had never excelled in school or in business. The benefit of his staying with me in Torquay had been mine. It had not done his future any good. Was it my fault th
at Bro was not financially stable?

  Then I thought of a way I might be able to make amends. “I could help you,” I said. “My inheritance from Grandmother Moulton’s estate, and some from our uncle’s. . . . Although I have to be cautious, I do have some means.”

  He raised an eyebrow, making me remember what might be a point of acrimony between us.

  “Forgive me for bringing that up,” I said. “That Uncle would single me out, out of all the nieces and nephews . . .” I smoothed the throw that covered my legs. “I do not know why he did such a thing, nor why he set me up to receive income from one of his merchant ships.”

  “Stop worrying, Ba. You cannot help being the most loved. We do not condemn you for it.”

  He could not think of it in such a way. “I was not the most loved. The most needy, perhaps . . .”

  He tucked the throw around my feet, showing once again how blessed I was to receive the abiding care of my family. “How much do you receive?” he asked. “I am merely curious.”

  I could have feigned ignorance, for I did not like to admit I had interest in financial details—I certainly had no talent with numbers—but this was Bro asking. From him I withheld no secrets. “Generally I receive two hundred pounds from the ship annually, and Papa has invested the four thousand from Grandmother’s inher—”

  “Four thousand?”

  The guilt tightened in my chest. “I have had to pay for my own care here in Torquay. There are many expenses beyond the room and food. The doctor and medicinal bills are extensive, over two hundred pounds. In addition I must pay for Crow’s lodging. I do not know how I would survive without her daily care.” Elizabeth Crow was a godsend, the first maid with whom I felt a strong connection. She had a talent for taking charge. Even though she was eleven years my junior, she was a powerful and comforting presence in my life, one that I could not do without.

  Bro stroked his chin, thinking. “I am not certain what I will do regarding matrimony,” he said. “I appreciate your offer of money, but . . . it is too soon to commit, either to the money or to the woman.”