eyebrow revealed his belief that he had won the argument.
No. I would make him concede the point that I was attuned to the world, even here, separate from it. I thought of something else that might sway him. “Did you know that I correspond regularly with Benjamin Haydon?”
“The artist?”
I nodded. “Mary arranged for Arabel and Sette to visit his studio where they saw his portrait of Wordsworth. They were so delighted with it, and told Mr. Haydon how much I would enjoy seeing it, that he had it sent here in a cab, for my personal viewing.”
John’s eyebrows rose. “He sent the portrait here?”
Finally, I had impressed him. “We have been corresponding ever since.”
“You’ve met him, then?”
“No, no. He calls me his ‘invisible friend,’ but his letters are delightful. You know I prefer correspondence to actual encounter.” A tidbit came to mind that would entice him. “Did you know he once was smitten with Caroline Norton?” I did not delve deeper into the gossip I had heard from the artist but secretly enjoyed hearing anything about this poetic rival whose success surpassed my own.
To my disappointment he did not bite but moved to the window and pulled the sheer curtain aside. “There, Ba. Out there are people, teeming with life and emotions, just waiting for you to join them. You say Arabel and Sette went out, and I know Henrietta dines all round, and—”
“Without a chaperon,” I added.
John gasped dramatically, putting his hand to his chest, then staggering backwards against the wall. “Oh no! The hussy!”
I looked downward to hide my smile. “It is not proper.”
“Henrietta is not a child,” John said. “Or even a young woman.”
He was right. My sister was thirty—four. Yet there was still the question of the propriety of her actions. There were consequences to being out in London by herself. Dangers from without-and within. If Papa ever found out . . .
John took a seat and crossed his legs. “You need to follow the example of your siblings, Ba. I admire them for their independence. And Henry too.”
Showing any admiration regarding my foolhardy brother was unthinkable. “You condone my brother’s going against our father’s wishes, simply disappearing to Dover after he had been told not to go?”
“It was his twenty-fourth birthday, Ba. Doesn’t a young man have a right to celebrate with his friends?” John said.
“But Papa told him no; told him it was nonsense.”
“It was not nonsense to Henry.” John put his feet to the floor and leaned forwards. “If you are so against your siblings’ acts of scandalous freedom, why don’t you tattle on them?”
He had made a point I found hard to counter. “I just . . . I cannot do that.”
“Why not?” John asked. “If your father is justified regarding his restrictions, and you agree with him in all ways, then why don’t you act on his behalf and be warden to this Wimpole Street gaol?”
“This is not a gaol,” I said. “Our home is sacred, our home is a loving place, our home is run on—”
“Blind loyalty?”
I felt my heart palpitating yet I could not let Papa’s character be disparaged. “You know Papa allows us to go out, he allows friendships and amusements.”
“Allows. That is the key word which elicits deeper inquiry,” John said.
“Papa simply suggests it is not necessary to venture far beyond our own family for satisfaction. We are enough. If only my siblings would realize that it would be far better for all of us.” I did not tell him how pained I was when they caused Papa to chastise them. How I detested the sound of loud voices and conflict.
John lounged in the chair once again. “I hear George and Stormie are leaving on a grand tour. Apparently, they feel this house is not enough.”
“That is different,” I said. “And if I were strong and free, I should be running myself all over the world. I should be in Paris and Italy. I should be longest in Germany, in the Alps
No. I would make him concede the point that I was attuned to the world, even here, separate from it. I thought of something else that might sway him. “Did you know that I correspond regularly with Benjamin Haydon?”
“The artist?”
I nodded. “Mary arranged for Arabel and Sette to visit his studio where they saw his portrait of Wordsworth. They were so delighted with it, and told Mr. Haydon how much I would enjoy seeing it, that he had it sent here in a cab, for my personal viewing.”
John’s eyebrows rose. “He sent the portrait here?”
Finally, I had impressed him. “We have been corresponding ever since.”
“You’ve met him, then?”
“No, no. He calls me his ‘invisible friend,’ but his letters are delightful. You know I prefer correspondence to actual encounter.” A tidbit came to mind that would entice him. “Did you know he once was smitten with Caroline Norton?” I did not delve deeper into the gossip I had heard from the artist but secretly enjoyed hearing anything about this poetic rival whose success surpassed my own.
To my disappointment he did not bite but moved to the window and pulled the sheer curtain aside. “There, Ba. Out there are people, teeming with life and emotions, just waiting for you to join them. You say Arabel and Sette went out, and I know Henrietta dines all round, and—”
“Without a chaperon,” I added.
John gasped dramatically, putting his hand to his chest, then staggering backwards against the wall. “Oh no! The hussy!”
I looked downward to hide my smile. “It is not proper.”
“Henrietta is not a child,” John said. “Or even a young woman.”
He was right. My sister was thirty—four. Yet there was still the question of the propriety of her actions. There were consequences to being out in London by herself. Dangers from without-and within. If Papa ever found out . . .
John took a seat and crossed his legs. “You need to follow the example of your siblings, Ba. I admire them for their independence. And Henry too.”
Showing any admiration regarding my foolhardy brother was unthinkable. “You condone my brother’s going against our father’s wishes, simply disappearing to Dover after he had been told not to go?”
“It was his twenty-fourth birthday, Ba. Doesn’t a young man have a right to celebrate with his friends?” John said.
“But Papa told him no; told him it was nonsense.”
“It was not nonsense to Henry.” John put his feet to the floor and leaned forwards. “If you are so against your siblings’ acts of scandalous freedom, why don’t you tattle on them?”
He had made a point I found hard to counter. “I just . . . I cannot do that.”
“Why not?” John asked. “If your father is justified regarding his restrictions, and you agree with him in all ways, then why don’t you act on his behalf and be warden to this Wimpole Street gaol?”
“This is not a gaol,” I said. “Our home is sacred, our home is a loving place, our home is run on—”
“Blind loyalty?”
I felt my heart palpitating yet I could not let Papa’s character be disparaged. “You know Papa allows us to go out, he allows friendships and amusements.”
“Allows. That is the key word which elicits deeper inquiry,” John said.
“Papa simply suggests it is not necessary to venture far beyond our own family for satisfaction. We are enough. If only my siblings would realize that it would be far better for all of us.” I did not tell him how pained I was when they caused Papa to chastise them. How I detested the sound of loud voices and conflict.
John lounged in the chair once again. “I hear George and Stormie are leaving on a grand tour. Apparently, they feel this house is not enough.”
“That is different,” I said. “And if I were strong and free, I should be running myself all over the world. I should be in Paris and Italy. I should be longest in Germany, in the Alps
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