How Do I Love Thee? (41 page)

To stand next to Robert in public for the first time, in St. Marylebone Church for
our
day, our moment . . . to hold his hand, to feel the brush of his sleeve against mine . . .

The physical aspect of the event faded compared to the bevy of emotions that swirled around and through me.

I listened to the reverend as he spoke of marriage, yet my mind wandered. There was room in me for one thought which was not a feeling: of the many, many women who had stood where I now stood, and to the same end, not one of them, not one since the building was a church, had reasons as strong as mine for an absolute trust and devotion towards the man she married. Not one.

I looked past the reverend to a painting of the holy family behind the altar. A family. Mother, father, son. Would I ever have a son?

My eyes strayed upwards to the half dome that crowned the apse. Jesus sat upon His throne, surrounded by figures in white. I smiled at Him, finding comfort that He—and the Father—were looking down upon our union, blessing it and rejoicing in it. For we were only here now because of that blessing.

I sensed Robert’s eyes upon me. I looked at him, smiled, and knew a difference between myself and the women who had married here before. They may have been less happy during
their
marriages here, yet they had the affectionate sympathy, support, and presence of their nearest relations, parent or sibling. I had no one but Wilson to rejoice with me. And Robert only had his cousin, James Silverthorne. Though the absence of my family and his was a disappointment, it did not—could not—quench the swell of happiness that encompassed me.

The words “Robert, will you take Elizabeth to be your wife . . . ?” and “Elizabeth, will you take Robert to be your husband . . . ?” drew my focus back to the moment, to the response that must be made to solidify the vows we had already shared in so many ways, in so many other words exchanged on paper and in person. I was quite willing to repeat them again, in this place, before God and good company.

I will, I will, oh yes, dear Lord, I will.

The room spun with a thousand threads of words and thoughts and senses invisibly interweaving a cloak around us, embracing us with a warmth that surpassed all previous comfort. This was right. It was good. And it was ordained and consecrated by our God.

The reverend raised a hand above our heads. “In the presence of God, and before those gathered here, Elizabeth and Robert have given their consent and made their marriage vows to each other. I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife.” He took our hands and placed them one upon the other. “Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”

“Amen,” said Robert and I, together, binding the moment in all eternity and with all blessings bestowed.

The moment hung in the air like a breath until Robert said, “May I kiss her now?”

The reverend laughed. “Yes, you may kiss her.”

As I turned to my husband and looked up at him, I began to cry. For though we had kissed before, no kiss had been so sweet as this, the delightful first contact of one man and his wife.

We stood in the back of the church, alone but for the moment when we would exit into the world who might know us, recognize us, and not understand.

“But I don’t want to leave you.” I drew Robert’s hands to my lips. “To go home, to pretend that nothing is different when everything is different . . .”

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.

F
IFTEEN

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. . . .