Free How Do I Love Thee? by Nancy Moser Page A

Quarterly Review. I believe Hartley Coleridge assembled it.”
    John pursed his lips and nodded. “Admirable.”
    I waved my hands. “Admirable? She is a machine, churning out four volumes of poetry in this year alone.”
    “Poetry that is selling well,” John said. “Or so I’ve heard.”
    “She is so young,” Mary said. Then she looked at me. “Two years younger than you, isn’t that right?”
    “Are you trying to make me feel bad?” I asked.
    Mary extended a quieting hand. “I am trying to make you focus on your own creations.”
    I knew she meant well, and I too enjoyed the creative process more than the reviews I was doing for Mr. Dilke. And yet it was still frustrating to hear of the success of Mrs. Norton. She was not a good person.
    As if reading my thoughts, John said, “She has had a hard life, Ba. A marriage that was . . .” He leaned close and lowered his voice. “It is said her husband beat her so that she was forced to leave him. He refuses to allow her a divorce. That is why she writes so prolifically, to earn her own money.”
    I had not heard that. All I knew was that a few years previous she had partaken of an adulterous affair with Lord Melbourne, who had been prime minister at the time.
    Mary pointed at my face. “I know what you are thinking. But Mrs. Norton was just friends with Lord Melbourne. You must remember the facts correctly, Ba. Her husband tried to blackmail him, demanding fourteen hundred pounds, but Melbourne would not bite. There was no proof though the accusation nearly brought down the government. Her cad of a husband continues to keep her from seeing their three sons.”
    My envy faded to compassion. “That is unconscionable. A mother needs to see her children.”
    Mary shrugged. “So you see, her commercial success is necessary for her very survival.”
    Guilt assaulted me, for though I would have enjoyed monetary success, it was not a necessity for my subsistence. “God does provide. Mrs. Norton obviously needs success far more than I do. I apologize for the sin of envy. And pettiness.”
    “You are hereby forgiven,” John said. “Really, Ba, you are allowed such feelings, especially among friends.”
    I was glad he had exonerated me. And yet, especially among friends . . . should I not show my best self?
    “Do you wish to know who causes me to envy?” John asked.
    “Who?” Mary asked.
    “Charles Dickens. In only six years he has produced six novels and is now in New York City, giving lectures and attending a ball in which three thousand of the highest society turned out to see him. Three thousand,” he repeated. “At London readings we are lucky to gather a handful.”
    “I enjoy his stories,” I said. “Though I find his women characters to be rather passive. I far prefer Frederika Bremer—even more than Jane Austen.”
    “Whyever would you say that?” Mary said.
    I had never been forced to defend Bremer and so was not sure . . . I felt Flush nudge at my skirt, and pulled the fabric aside to allow him exit from his retreat. He took a seat at my feet, signaling all was forgiven. “I think I like Bremer because Serena, the character in The Neighbours , is so completely self-sacrificing. Her refusal to marry because it would mean leaving the grandparents who had raised her . . . the serenity, the sweetness, the undertone of Christian music in her choice . . . it’s a poignant example of Christian sacrifice.”
    “Ill-conceived sacrifice,” John said. He cleared his throat. “ ‘Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.’ ” His voice took on a polite but slightly condescending tone. “Children are supposed to leave their families and create new ones.”
    Mary put her hands on her hips. “You are speaking to two spinster women, Mr. Kenyon. You will get no takers to your argument. That both Ba and I have chosen to remain loyal to our fathers—”
    “Loyalty does not