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Authors: Nancy Moser
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years ago, our setbacks forced the sale of Hope End. But through it all, Papa provided for us to the best of his abilities. After all this, and after Mother’s death, he had drawn us all close, keeping our family tightly knit amid the upheaval and uncertainty.
Too tightly knit?
Knowing the foibles and weaknesses of my siblings and me, I could not consider the gift of more freedom as being a good thing, or wise. Together, we Barretts became strong, each providing some needed aspect of a rightful whole.
“I lost you,” Occy said, waving his hand at me.
Indeed, he had. And I still had to answer his initial question, in spite of the incompleteness of my knowledge. I tried to think of appropriate words to define our parents’ love: respect, appreciation . . . neither of those were quite right. “I believe they did love each other, in the way that the two of them created a family and were united in that purpose.”
“But were they in love with each other?”
I smiled. Although I sat upon the outer border of the possibilities of love, Occy was perched at its beginning. “I . . . I don’t think so. I never witnessed any passion, any yearning, one for the other.” I shook the thought away. “But what do I know of such things? Love is an equation I have not ciphered. Perhaps such a love only exists in novels.”
“I hope it exists,” Occy said.
“Do you have someone in mind?” I teased.
To his credit, he reddened. “No. Not yet. But I will.”
“You will? You know such a thing?”
“I want to know such a thing.”
Such innocence and hope. Had I ever experienced those feelings?
If so, the memory was too dim to relight.
Crow stood at the window and fanned herself against the stifling summer heat. Then she put down her fan and tried—for the umpteenth time—to open my window farther than its frame would allow. Perspiration made stray hairs cling to her face. “A person could expire from lack of air,” she said.
“Papa should be pleased,” I said. “He so enjoys the heat.”
“Not this heat,” Crow said. “Although he pretends it has no effect on him, this afternoon I heard him tell your sister his tea was too hot.”
I laughed. “Not a sigh against the sun, only against the tea? It is great criticism indeed.”
“You take after him,” she said. “Still a throw upon your feet? If propriety permitted, I would rid myself of my petticoats, chemise, and—” She stopped her list before it became more risqué. “I would make myself comfortable, that’s all.”
I was proud to say I took after Papa in this tolerance of heat. It was the cold that plagued us the most. My one concession to Crow’s complaint was to keep my door open, allowing air to move freely from one level of our home to another. In actuality all windows were open, with only the front door closed against the busyness and publicity of the street.
Hearing voices below, she moved to the hall. “Mr. Kenyon and Miss Mitford are here.”
A double blessing. “Go greet them and ask them up. And get tea and biscuits for us, and cream cheese for Flush. I’ve promised it to him all afternoon.”
She shook her head. “You spoil that boy.”
So be it. Whom else did I have to spoil?
Within minutes my room was alive with visitors. Cousin John kissed one cheek and Mary, the other. “Welcome,” I said. “Sit, sit.”
They were just settled in when Crow returned with the cream cheese in a bowl and a shaker of salt. “The tea is coming,” she said, handing me a spoon.
I sprinkled the bowl with salt and began to stir it into the cream cheese that was Flush’s favourite.
“What are you doing?” John asked.
“I am the only one who knows how much salt is just enough.”
“I am not inquiring about the salt, but the cream cheese. For a dog?”
Crow interrupted. “That dog gets whatever he wants. Cream cheese, sugared milk in a purple bowl, macaroons . . .”
“The last, only on holidays,” I said.
Mary rolled her eyes. “
Too tightly knit?
Knowing the foibles and weaknesses of my siblings and me, I could not consider the gift of more freedom as being a good thing, or wise. Together, we Barretts became strong, each providing some needed aspect of a rightful whole.
“I lost you,” Occy said, waving his hand at me.
Indeed, he had. And I still had to answer his initial question, in spite of the incompleteness of my knowledge. I tried to think of appropriate words to define our parents’ love: respect, appreciation . . . neither of those were quite right. “I believe they did love each other, in the way that the two of them created a family and were united in that purpose.”
“But were they in love with each other?”
I smiled. Although I sat upon the outer border of the possibilities of love, Occy was perched at its beginning. “I . . . I don’t think so. I never witnessed any passion, any yearning, one for the other.” I shook the thought away. “But what do I know of such things? Love is an equation I have not ciphered. Perhaps such a love only exists in novels.”
“I hope it exists,” Occy said.
“Do you have someone in mind?” I teased.
To his credit, he reddened. “No. Not yet. But I will.”
“You will? You know such a thing?”
“I want to know such a thing.”
Such innocence and hope. Had I ever experienced those feelings?
If so, the memory was too dim to relight.
Crow stood at the window and fanned herself against the stifling summer heat. Then she put down her fan and tried—for the umpteenth time—to open my window farther than its frame would allow. Perspiration made stray hairs cling to her face. “A person could expire from lack of air,” she said.
“Papa should be pleased,” I said. “He so enjoys the heat.”
“Not this heat,” Crow said. “Although he pretends it has no effect on him, this afternoon I heard him tell your sister his tea was too hot.”
I laughed. “Not a sigh against the sun, only against the tea? It is great criticism indeed.”
“You take after him,” she said. “Still a throw upon your feet? If propriety permitted, I would rid myself of my petticoats, chemise, and—” She stopped her list before it became more risqué. “I would make myself comfortable, that’s all.”
I was proud to say I took after Papa in this tolerance of heat. It was the cold that plagued us the most. My one concession to Crow’s complaint was to keep my door open, allowing air to move freely from one level of our home to another. In actuality all windows were open, with only the front door closed against the busyness and publicity of the street.
Hearing voices below, she moved to the hall. “Mr. Kenyon and Miss Mitford are here.”
A double blessing. “Go greet them and ask them up. And get tea and biscuits for us, and cream cheese for Flush. I’ve promised it to him all afternoon.”
She shook her head. “You spoil that boy.”
So be it. Whom else did I have to spoil?
Within minutes my room was alive with visitors. Cousin John kissed one cheek and Mary, the other. “Welcome,” I said. “Sit, sit.”
They were just settled in when Crow returned with the cream cheese in a bowl and a shaker of salt. “The tea is coming,” she said, handing me a spoon.
I sprinkled the bowl with salt and began to stir it into the cream cheese that was Flush’s favourite.
“What are you doing?” John asked.
“I am the only one who knows how much salt is just enough.”
“I am not inquiring about the salt, but the cream cheese. For a dog?”
Crow interrupted. “That dog gets whatever he wants. Cream cheese, sugared milk in a purple bowl, macaroons . . .”
“The last, only on holidays,” I said.
Mary rolled her eyes. “
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