How Do I Love Thee? by Nancy Moser Page B

fascinated with our family and life at Hope End, and . . . and he saw through the excuse of my bad health, the weather, my lack of transportation, and . . . such . . . as barriers to our meeting. I finally had to tell him that Papa would never approve. Papa had told me that, whatever gratification and improvement I might receive from a personal intercourse with Mr. Boyd, as a female—a young female—I could not visit him without overstepping the established observances of society.”
    “Oh posh,” Mary said.
    I allowed myself a moment to access the fuller truth. “Actually, although Papa did object, the main obstacle to our first meeting was my fear.”
    “Ah,” Mary said.
    Suddenly, I realized how many years had passed from then to now. I had started being reclusive fifteen years ago? Or even longer? Or had I always been this way? I let myself remember those last years of my youth, when my health had caused me to change so drastically. . . .
    Yet with those memories came a few that were unflattering. . . . “I remember feeling quite well more often than I let on. I would tell Papa otherwise to suit my whim. I knew he did not like society much, and so I played into that—at will—knowing that he would not force me to do what brought him discomfort.”
    Mary smiled and pretended to chastise, “Ba! I am shocked.”
    So was I, in retrospect. Yet at the time . . . “Mr. Boyd deemed my excuses ridiculous. And as far as propriety? He was blind, a married man, and had a daughter as old as I.”
    “At the risk of jumping ahead . . . you did meet him?”
    “Finally. I had been walking with my sisters on the street and—”
    “So you were well?”
    “Well enough. I did get out occasionally to visit an aunt and Grandmother Moulton, who rented a cottage close by. And on one of these occasions, I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Boyd, walking. Although I had never seen them, Henrietta knew who they were and suggested we go say hello, but I could not, just could not, and slipped into a shop without greeting them.”
    “Ba, that was rude. That was your chance.”
    “I know that now. I knew it then, but I have always been low on courage.” And yet . . . I remembered otherwise. “Actually, soon after that incident I showed great courage, perhaps one of the few times I have ever done so.”
    “What happened?”
    “On that day, Mrs. Boyd had recognized my sisters, realized I was their companion, and told her husband of my slight. He wrote me a scathing letter pointing out that if I were well enough to visit others, I should have been well enough to visit him, a respectable, married man. But no matter, they were leaving the area soon, and so that, quite simply, was that.”
    “He had a point.”
    “He did. But his letter wounded me so, I went to Papa and showed it to him, and asked him to give me good reason why I could not call on the Boyds.”
    “And he . . . ?”
    “He had no good excuse since I was well enough, and the situation was respectable enough, so—”
    “He admitted he was wrong?”
    A laugh escaped. “No, no. That would never happen. Has never happened. Ever. But he did say, ‘Do as you like,’ which I considered a victory. And so I did. As I liked.”
    “Bravo!” Mary offered soft applause.
    The full memory spurred me to urge her to stop. “I was too nervous to go alone, so I asked Bro to accompany me, and Henrietta and Arabel agreed to go in the little carriage as far as a friend’s home. But on the way down the Wyche—a very steep hill—the pony’s trot turned into a panicked gallop, and though Bro warned everyone, ‘Don’t touch the reins!’, I instinctively did just that, and the carriage overturned.”
    “Were you hurt?”
    “Henrietta hurt her ankle and my hat was torn, and we were all dirty from the road, but no serious injuries. And luckily another carriage came along and took Henrietta off to our friend’s home. Bro ran after the pony, but I was so scared, I would not let him connect the