has been abolished.”
“It is detestable,” I said. “But at the time, it was vital to our family’s livelihood. Without the income from Jamaica, and with money needed to rebuild there . . .”
“That is why Papa sold Hope End, yes?”
In an instant I decided it was not necessary for my brother to know that Hope End was seized to pay debts. Even I had not known of this until much after the fact. Papa always kept our finances close to the chest. To answer his question, I said simply, “Yes.”
“I do not remember it much,” he said.
I shared his grief in this. As the eldest, I had benefited from many happy years there, but Occy, being the youngest—eighteen years younger than I . . . I tried to remember what we were talking about before the conversation turned to the perniciousness of financial necessities. “Ah. Paris. The lovely trip I took with Mother and Papa. Even after we returned, Mother kept the memory of it going. She hired a French governess and encouraged me to write her notes in French—even when we were in the same house. I remember her saying to me in French, ‘ Un jour de travail dur vaut mieux que deux de repos .’ ”
Occy looked at me blankly.
“One day of hard work is worth two of idleness.”
He made a face. “Oh.”
“Cheer up, little brother. When you find your true calling, hard work will be a joy. You are so lucky to be a man.”
“Because I have to work, because I am expected to work?”
“Because you can work. I used to tease Bro because I longed to do scholarly work and was not allowed, and he, who could have embraced it, had no interest.” I shrugged. Such inequities were timeless and would never change.
“But you have attained much, Ba. Your books, your writing . . . you are having the same chances as a man.”
“I am having chances, yes. But I do not put my name on any of my work—Papa forbids it. Not that I yearn for fame, but . . . it saddens me that it reaches the world anonymously.”
“Perhaps as a woman that is best?”
“Perhaps.” I hated that my pride longed to see my name upon a cover. Perhaps this was God’s way of keeping me humble? There was some compensation that I was known in literary circles, if not to the public. “At least our parents never believed the common misconception that girls’ minds were inferior to boys’. I learned Greek with Bro when Mother taught us at home and did better at it than he did. But then . . .” The memory of Bro waving from a carriage as he left me behind to attend school brought old hurts to the surface.
“But then?”
“But then he was sent to school and I was left behind. I, who loved learning, was left behind.”
“And he, who cared little for learning, was given the chance.”
I took a new breath in order to answer. “Yes.”
“But you still learned plenty, Ba.” He pointed to the book by Aeschylus and the shelves of books beyond.
“But I could have learned more. If I’d been a man, and if I’d been well.”
Occy leaned back on the sofa, his arm behind his head. “Do you think they loved each other?”
“Mother and Papa?”
He nodded.
What did I know of love? An invalid spinster who had never been kissed and who would never be kissed. Had my parents loved each other? My mother had been an excellent wife: dutiful, subservient, intensely loyal to my father. And Papa . . . had he been a good husband?
When I thought about the father of my youth, I pictured him smiling, watching our various plays and productions, reading my feeble attempts at writing, crowning me the Poet Laureate of Hope End, even though I was only nine or ten. He supported us in so many ways. Supported Mother?
I also remembered finding him hunched over his desk, his face serious, his brow pulled in concern. Having holdings in Jamaica, half a world away, holdings that had been dependent upon slavery, yet hating the institution and not knowing how else to run our plantations. . . . When slavery had been abolished nine
“It is detestable,” I said. “But at the time, it was vital to our family’s livelihood. Without the income from Jamaica, and with money needed to rebuild there . . .”
“That is why Papa sold Hope End, yes?”
In an instant I decided it was not necessary for my brother to know that Hope End was seized to pay debts. Even I had not known of this until much after the fact. Papa always kept our finances close to the chest. To answer his question, I said simply, “Yes.”
“I do not remember it much,” he said.
I shared his grief in this. As the eldest, I had benefited from many happy years there, but Occy, being the youngest—eighteen years younger than I . . . I tried to remember what we were talking about before the conversation turned to the perniciousness of financial necessities. “Ah. Paris. The lovely trip I took with Mother and Papa. Even after we returned, Mother kept the memory of it going. She hired a French governess and encouraged me to write her notes in French—even when we were in the same house. I remember her saying to me in French, ‘ Un jour de travail dur vaut mieux que deux de repos .’ ”
Occy looked at me blankly.
“One day of hard work is worth two of idleness.”
He made a face. “Oh.”
“Cheer up, little brother. When you find your true calling, hard work will be a joy. You are so lucky to be a man.”
“Because I have to work, because I am expected to work?”
“Because you can work. I used to tease Bro because I longed to do scholarly work and was not allowed, and he, who could have embraced it, had no interest.” I shrugged. Such inequities were timeless and would never change.
“But you have attained much, Ba. Your books, your writing . . . you are having the same chances as a man.”
“I am having chances, yes. But I do not put my name on any of my work—Papa forbids it. Not that I yearn for fame, but . . . it saddens me that it reaches the world anonymously.”
“Perhaps as a woman that is best?”
“Perhaps.” I hated that my pride longed to see my name upon a cover. Perhaps this was God’s way of keeping me humble? There was some compensation that I was known in literary circles, if not to the public. “At least our parents never believed the common misconception that girls’ minds were inferior to boys’. I learned Greek with Bro when Mother taught us at home and did better at it than he did. But then . . .” The memory of Bro waving from a carriage as he left me behind to attend school brought old hurts to the surface.
“But then?”
“But then he was sent to school and I was left behind. I, who loved learning, was left behind.”
“And he, who cared little for learning, was given the chance.”
I took a new breath in order to answer. “Yes.”
“But you still learned plenty, Ba.” He pointed to the book by Aeschylus and the shelves of books beyond.
“But I could have learned more. If I’d been a man, and if I’d been well.”
Occy leaned back on the sofa, his arm behind his head. “Do you think they loved each other?”
“Mother and Papa?”
He nodded.
What did I know of love? An invalid spinster who had never been kissed and who would never be kissed. Had my parents loved each other? My mother had been an excellent wife: dutiful, subservient, intensely loyal to my father. And Papa . . . had he been a good husband?
When I thought about the father of my youth, I pictured him smiling, watching our various plays and productions, reading my feeble attempts at writing, crowning me the Poet Laureate of Hope End, even though I was only nine or ten. He supported us in so many ways. Supported Mother?
I also remembered finding him hunched over his desk, his face serious, his brow pulled in concern. Having holdings in Jamaica, half a world away, holdings that had been dependent upon slavery, yet hating the institution and not knowing how else to run our plantations. . . . When slavery had been abolished nine
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