How Do I Love Thee? by Nancy Moser Page A

handkerchief to blow her nose. “He succumbed peacefully.”
    In spite of proper decorum for such situations, a small laugh escaped. “ That is a change.”
    I was relieved when she returned my smile. “He was a difficult man.”
    “Demanding.”
    “Stubborn.”
    “Reckless.” I hastened to add, “With money.”
    She agreed with a nod. “My money.”
    I ran a hand across her back. “You supported him for so many years.”
    “Money ran through his fingers. He’d always been that way. When I was a child he spent Mother’s inheritance, and then even my lottery winnings.”
    I had forgotten about that. When Mary was ten she had won twenty thousand pounds, which her father had spent with great speed and abandon. His penchant for spending often ended him in debtors’ prison, where he was repeatedly rescued by his loyal, hardworking daughter.
    Mary gripped the handkerchief in her fist. “I wanted to be the greatest English poetess of all time, yet my poems have never sold. How ironic that my prose, The Village , which I was forced to write to pay the bills, found success. And now I am alone. So alone.” She fell into my arms once again.
    “You are not alone, Mary. You have many, many friends, most of all me. And this house. You must come and stay here.”
    She shook her head vigorously. “Your father would never allow it. When I visit he barely nods and always appears stern, as if I am an intruder.”
    I hurried to defend him, for she was not the first to misunderstand Papa’s reticence. “He is merely shy and feels intimidated by those he admires, those with high intellect and wit. He doubts his ability to host, not in your ability to be a suitable guest. He is really very kind and caring and . . .” I thought of a point that would be his best defence. “He has been praying for your father during his illness. I did not ask him to. He did so out of his own mind, and quite from the heart. He was the one who suggested we send your father gifts to cheer him.”
    “The chocolates from Jamaica. Father loved those.”
    I nodded earnestly. “That was Papa’s doing. And the oysters. And the grapes.”
    Suddenly she sat erect. “Why did I never marry?” She gave me a pointed look. “Why did you never marry?”
    Her question took me by surprise. “I . . .”
    “Why did love pass us by?”
    I had never thought of it in this manner. “Perhaps it was we who did the passing.”
    Her eyebrow rose. “You received offers?”
    Although the question was innocent, I felt myself blush. “No, there was never anyone—anyone that was . . .”
    I had piqued her interest. “Was . . . ?”
    I chose the first word that came to mind, even though it was insufficient. “Feasible.”
    “Love and feasibility do not belong in the same sentence.”
    “They do when they describe a young woman falling in love with an elderly man; a middle-aged blind man, four years older than Papa.”
    She scooted away from me, as if to study me better. “Who?”
    “You do not know him. Hugh Boyd.”
    “Hugh Stuart Boyd, the Greek scholar?”
    I was pleased she did know of him. “When I was but twenty-one and we still lived at Hope End, he was staying in nearby Malvern and sent me a letter, saying he admired my writing in An Essay on Mind. It was utterly unexpected; he was a complete stranger.”
    “How exciting.”
    I nodded. “Through extended correspondence I discovered we were of like mind. He was so learned, so well read, and was also a poet. I wanted him to teach me.” I hurried to clarify. “By letter. Although he wanted to meet me, I made excuses—feeble though they were—as to why I could not meet him.”
    “You prefer to test a friendship on paper first, do you not?”
    “I confess, that is the case.”
    “But you did meet him?”
    I gave her a chastising look. “You get ahead of the story.”
    She held up a hand, yielding.
    “Our correspondence eventually moved beyond a scholarly discussion to a more personal vein. He was