How Do I Love Thee? Read Online Free PDF Page B

becoming an adult I had not possessed a normal connection with anyone. The usual chatter of society bored me, and I was ill at ease in crowds. Only through letters was I able to sustain meaningful discourse with others of like mind. In most cases, they were men. Much older men. Men of learning and literature, such as Sir Uvedale Price and Hugh Stuart Boyd, both elderly scholars who miraculously treated me as a peer, far from equal, but a contemporary who was willing to learn. They gave my writing genuine criticism—which I encouraged. Although a good poet is one of God’s singers, it did not mean improvements could not, and should not, be achieved. If I only accepted accolades—whether the work be worthy or no—then I would be cheating the Almighty and revealing the sin of pride. Although I could be proud, I was not a cheater. I was also not a versifier as so many women were. I did not casually jot down stray verses that ambled through my thoughts. True poetry was sacred. It owned a dignity and sense of purpose, and as such, I strove to embrace those same traits as my own.
    A few months earlier, in the midst of my mourning, I remembered Martin Luther had stated that a person’s entire life was a task set by God. The idea planted then now moved me towards action. I would try to please God, and please myself and others in the process.
    Towards that end, I rang the bell, calling Crow to my side. “The pen, Crow, if you please? And paper and ink.”
    Her smile was verification that it was time. “Anything else, Miss Elizabeth?”
    “No. Thank you.”
    She left the room, and I took up my pen to write to Mary.
    And yet . . . my hand trembled. I set the pen aside and flexed my fingers, willing them to remember their duty to bring thought to paper. I grasped the pen again and willed my hand to obey.
    It acquiesced, though tentative and not without a flutter to the script: Dearest Mary . . .
    It was a beginning.

    Three months had passed since I had renewed my correspondence with Mary Mitford. I looked forward to her letters above all others, above even those of Papa, who had returned to London in December, leaving Arabella here in Torquay with Henrietta and me. Miss Mitford’s letters gave each day a new purpose as we discussed our work and families and . . . life. But there was more than her letters which brought me anticipation. Mary was sending me a very special present, one I had objected to most vociferously and ineffectually because of its value.
    A dog.
    He was due to arrive at any time and caused me to rise from my pillows on more than one occasion when I heard a cart stop out front.
    As it did now. Crow, who was putting some clothes away in the bureau, glanced at me. “It’s just a dog, miss, which, if I be honest, I’m not too keen on getting. Dogs are dirty and smelly.”
    She was right—they could be. But they could also be pleasant companions. “It’s good you’ve only been with me here in Torquay, Crow, for back in London, Henry has a bloodhound and a mastiff, and Occy has a terrier. Myrtle is the ugliest dog in all Christendom.” I did not mention that at one time I had tamed a squirrel and had been owner to multiple rabbits, a hen, and a poodle named Havannah, as well as my pony, Moses.
    “If that many dogs be there, then I be glad I’m here,” she said, pushing the drawer shut.
    “This is not just any dog, mind you,” I said. “He is the son of a champion spaniel, one Miss Mitford could have sold for twenty guineas. I know she needs the money and yet she is sending him to me.”
    Crow looked skeptical. “A spaniel. How big is—?”
    I heard a bark outside and my heart leapt. “He’s here!” There was a knock on the door. “Help me up!”
    Crow helped me into the hallway. And then I saw him. A rambunctious six-month-old golden cocker spaniel. Henrietta bent down to meet him and he put his paws upon her knees, his tail wagging madly. How I wished I could have run down the stairs to greet him