The Definition of Love
The Definition of Love
The post horse, with hooves the size of dinner-plates, plodded by on the street out front. Susanna left off her harangue with the fishwife long enough to look up, but he went right past again. She ended up paying four farthings more for the salt cod than she really thought it was worth.
Why, oh, why had Elizabeth gone off a-marrying?
The rain, until now a quiet, innocuous little drizzle, came harder. Sharp, chilly pieces of water pelted Susanna’s face and shoulders. She entered the kitchen from the courtyard and dropped the hard and crusty fish on the table by the hearth. “She had eels, too, but I absolutely refused to pay what she’s asking. Go down to the wharf tomorrow morning, Kate; there should be some good buys there, judging from what she was peddling.”
The cook mumbled something noncommittal, glanced askance at the cod, and resumed scraping turnips.
Susanna continued down the long, hollow hall she knew so well. The door to Papa’s study was closed. He didn’t want to be disturbed. Silence upstairs. Mama, abed again, must be sleeping.
And nothing by the post.
She yearned for a letter. Edward Veal’s academy had closed down, and some claimed that Sam Westley’s sarcastic writing against the established church had hastened its closure. Susanna knew better. Mr. Veal himself had paid Sam well to write those broadsides. If it were anyone’s fault, the fault lay squarely on Mr. Veal’s doorstep.
Now Sam was attending Stoke Newington Dissenting Academy. It must be wonderful to pack your extra clothes in a bag, kiss your parents on the forehead, and go trooping off to school. School—nothing to do but learn and study, study and learn.
School was for boys, not for girls. No, girls need not even know how to read simple English, let alone Greek or Hebrew. Girls haggled with fishmongers and tried to choose decent husbands and birthed babies. Susanna would not let herself fall into a trap of blaming God for all that; after all, she had read the book of Job in Greek, Hebrew, and English and understood God’s impatience with complainers. But someone was to blame. It wasn’t fair.
She got three steps up the stairs before a rap at the door stopped her. She was tempted to just keep going on up to her beloved musty old books. Let someone else take care of it. But her father’s policy, even back in the days when there were far more servants in the house, had always been to answer every knock personally. She went back down the three steps and opened the door.
Samuel Westley stood bedraggled on the doorstep like an abandoned puppy. Rivulets of rain trickled past his ears and dribbled in under the neck of his cape. He smiled wanly. “It’s wet out.”
“I should say.” With eager swiftness she saw him to the salon, took his cloak, and bolted the length of the hall to order of Kate hot tea and cakes. Oh, yes—and a towel!
She paused outside the salon to collect herself and pat her hair. Then she stepped into the room to entertain her guest.
Sam smiled nervously. This wasn’t at all like him. He was always so open and spontaneous.
Susanna smiled nervously. This wasn’t at all like her. She was always in command of the situation.
“You’re chilled.” She broke the stumbling silence. “Let’s retire to the kitchen. It’s much warmer there.”
“Good. Yes. Sure.” He followed her down the hall, her heels clicking and his boots making gentle squishing noises.
“Please be seated.” She waved an arm around the room at large.
With a relieved-sounding sigh he flopped down on the hearth stones as close to the fire as he could safely get.
Susanna pulled up her little stool and settled upon it near his elbow. She hadn’t sat on her little stool in many years. She felt young again, child-sized, even though she lapped over the tiny wooden perch on all sides.
“So how is Stoke Newington?” A good hostess puts the guest at ease with a few harmless introductory questions.
“I don’t know. Has your mother ever had many disappointments? Not just children dying, though I know that’s sad enough. I mean—later disappointments.”
“When my sister Sarah ran off and married Thomas Dangerfield. Tom was a spy; an informant for the High Church against dissenters. Caused no end of trouble and cost. Then for her to—and then there was me. I, I mean. Going back to the High Church after the shabby way it treated my father.”
Susanna watched the color come back by degrees to his face as the fire warmed him. She felt a sudden yearning to wrap her arms around him and kiss the troubled tenseness out of his eyes. She would never actually do such a thing, of course—it would hardly be proper.
Sam leaned back against the bricks. “Shabby. Yes. My mother blames the established church for my father’s early death at forty-two. Says it broke his heart.” Sam looked at Susanna with eyes all forlorn. “She’s probably right.”
“I don’t understand. Are you about to ask me to leave the church and return to the dissenting movement?”
“No!” It burst out of him. He sighed again. Such heavy, world-weighted sighs. “I’m supposed to be the word-weaver, the charmer of the printed page, the poet. And I am—until I get around you, and then my wits all fly away on the wind. I knew when I came here that everything I said would come out wrong.”
She yearned more than ever to do something or say something to make it all fine for him. The youngest child in a family never gets to comfort and snuggle little brothers and sisters, and she wanted that. But she could think of nothing to do that wouldn’t be misconstrued. So she did nothing.
“No, I’m not asking you to quit the church. Just the opposite.” His voice had settled again to its usual melodic lilt. “You see, I’m not at the dissenting academy at Newington Green anymore. I’m enrolled at Exeter.”
“Oxford! That’s splendid!” She frowned. “A dissenter in school at Oxford?”
“No.”
She hesitated a moment as her mind arranged all this. Here was one of the nicest things about Sam Westley. He didn’t feel the need to spell everything out, as if she were a five-year-old. “I see,” she said quietly. “The reason you feel so badly today is that you’ve sorely disappointed your mother by returning to the High Church. I understand your sadness, having seen my father’s face when I turned my back on the dissenters. Doing it openly and honestly doesn’t make it any easier.”
Blue eyes are supposed to be cold. His were warm—warm and soft and luminous with affection. “I so fervently hoped you’d understand. And it’s clear you truly do. Maybe that’s why I—” He licked his lips. “Rather than sully my father’s name, I’m altering mine to Wesley. Took out the t.”
“Samuel Wesley. It pronounces nearly the same.” Now how should she phrase this next question? “What, er—have you any plans? Following your education, that is.”
“Yes. A theology degree. Ordination. Procure a living somewhere as a rector. My brother Matthew’s studying medicine, and Mother’s far too poor to help either of us financially. But once Matt and I are established, we’ll be able to provide nicely for her.” His voice dropped to a timid mumble. “And get married, of course.”
“Of course.”
Silence.
Why was her mind bumbling like this? Her stool was so small her knees poked up close to her chin. She folded her arms across them as a chin-rest. “I enjoy your letters immensely. Anticipation has taught me the sound of the post horse apart from all other horses. Thank you for taking the time.”
“Thank you for being so faithful about writing back. Your letters cheer me when the world gets heavy.”
Kate served tea and biscuits in the thick silence. Samuel commented on the weather, but a moment later Susanna couldn’t remember what he had said. She commented upon the season in general. They sipped and nibbled in further silence.
Eventually Samuel gave her his address. She wished him well at Oxford. They stood about awhile fumbling for words. He studied her with those marvelous eyes and for some reason turned red briefly. Susanna was fairly certain it couldn’t be the warmth in the kitchen; it wasn’t that hot in here.
With much hesitation he took his leave. She draped his cloak across his shoulders; it had only partly dried. He stood about shuffling from foot to foot. He took her hand and kissed it, a gesture she had seen him use many times with women of all ages. He clung to her hand a few moments, and then he was gone.
She closed the great oaken door and leaned against it. She loved receiving letters from him. She loved his visits, which had grown less frequent lately and thus more precious for their scarcity. Why was this particular visit so unsettling?
It must have been his news that made him so uncomfortable. On the other hand that should have put Susanna, at least, at ease, for she so often felt lonely as the only Anglican in a houseful of prominent dissenters. That Sam should make the same decision healed her loneliness and persistent doubts, her constant nagging worry that she had somehow erred in her decision and thus displeased God. Above all she dreaded to displease God and invite His wrath and indignation. She must keep herself a model Christian, a person God would be proud to receive into heaven one day.
With Samuel gone back out into the rain and cold, Susanna was back to listening for the post. Southwark, that thriving, ribald, city-outside-the-city south of the Thames, had seemed an exciting place to live at one time. Now, as time stretched from days to months to years, Southwark lost its savor.
Her mother, never in good health, died quietly. A part of her beloved Papa died then also, and he spent more time than ever behind his study door. Ministerial students didn’t come around as often. And because Papa felt such a strong responsibility toward them, family finances dwindled as he helped first this one, then that. One by one the servants were released, “for economic reasons.” The sorry, echoing halls of Spital Yard turned cold and indifferent.
Susanna busied herself with studies, ran the household, and thought about Sam. Smart Sam. Brilliant Samuel Wesley. In some ways he was vain and full of self, just like Elizabeth’s John. But there was more to him, a depth, a cleverness. He grasped things quickly. She admired that, for it was one of her own strongest traits. Best of all, Sammy accepted that she, too, had a proper head on her shoulders—not one filled with thistledown.
The year Susanna turned nineteen Sammy received his degree and became a church deacon. She was nearly as proud as if she herself had earned a degree. She understood the work involved, for Sam had no one’s money but his own to put himself through. A month after her twentieth birthday he was ordained a priest. Father Samuel.
Today, Susanna giggled as she made up her bed. Father Samuel indeed. Somehow she couldn’t picture Sam as anything but the witty, outgoing student who left nothing but smiles and chuckles in his wake.
She stopped in the middle of the floor. Of all the jesting, of all those times when Sam seemed to say whatever popped into his head at the moment, Susanna could not remember his ever revealing anything about himself. What did Sam Wesley feel inside? What did he think about personally? Oh, he’d talk for hours on theology and philosophy and the structure of poetry—abstract, intellectual things. But feelings? Never.
Wasn’t this curious! The effervescent man who expressed himself so candidly about others could not bear to let others see the real Sam Wesley.
She crossed to her table and picked up her comb. She had arranged her hair this morning, but it was loose on the left side. So. She knew all about Sam Wesley’s theology, but she knew not a single tidbit about his personal feelings. What could she deduce? He fancied her well enough; that much was obvious. On his rare visits to London he spent most of his time with his mother, and rightly so. Even so, he usually managed brief stops at Spital Yard as well. But how much did he like her?
He was as sensitive regarding the feelings of others as was any man. Observe how much he regretted hurting his mother when he switched churches. Even Susanna had not felt that kind of regret, although she weighed her parents’ feelings carefully when she made her decision. Of course, she had been only a child back then.
She was certainly no spring chicken anymore. With her twentieth birthday behind her she had nearly passed marrying age. There were girls as old as she with three or four children already.
For that matter, how young was Sam? Come December he’d be twenty-seven. Aging Father Samuel. If he had such trouble expressing his inner feelings in words, would he also have trouble expressing love?
She paused in her doorway for a last look around. Her room was in order. She adjusted slightly her fashionable French lace collar, tugging at it so that it lay perfectly straight down her shoulders. All in order. Time to go downstairs and proceed with the rest of the day. She left her neat room behind.
Why was she worried about Samuel Wesley’s propensity for love? Just because he came around and she enjoyed his company did not mean definitely and without a doubt that he would ever marry her. The fact that she had discouraged all other potential suitors did not necessarily mean Sam was the only one for her, either. Of course, he was the only one she thought about, and she thought about him often. Sometimes thoughts of him got in the way of loftier thoughts she ought to be thinking. And she did enjoy his letters. Was she in love? She wasn’t certain.
Love. Why couldn’t someone explain what you’re supposed to feel like, exactly, if you are in love? Then she would know whether this was the real thing or not. The indefinable things of life are so frustrating. She much preferred definition, clarity, order.
Had Papa risen? Apparently—the door to his study was closed. She was halfway to the kitchen when someone rapped at the great front door. It was too early for the post. She reversed herself and took her time answering. If this was that overpriced tinker who kept coming by—
Sam stood on the stoop, resplendent in all the fine garb of the priesthood. And from inside all that fine garb glowed the childlike grin of a self-conscious little boy.
“Oh, my,” Susanna purred. “Don’t you dazzle the mind and eye! Do come in, Father Samuel.”
“Thank you, Mistress Annesley.” He entered amid the soft rustle of fresh new Lincolnshire wool.
She took his heavy, ankle-length black cloak and his flatbrimmed hat. She ushered him into the salon and stood there a moment to admire the brand new priest. Despite the boyish face he struck quite an imposing figure. “You do look the part, Father Wesley. Am I to address you henceforth as Father exclusively, or might I use less formal epithets on occasion—Papa Sammy, perhaps?”
“Now here’s a side of you I never suspected—a tease.”
Susanna recalled momentarily her speculations of just a few minutes ago. “There are many sides of you I can’t suspect, for you never let them out where one can see them.”
His cheeks turned pink. He laughed suddenly and walked off to study the carved oaken table in the corner. “I do have a bit of trouble with that, and it frequently causes me vexation.” He turned around and looked at her long and admiringly. “Do you realize how very beautiful you are?”
“Your first words warned me against the pitfall of vanity.”
“That was before I knew you. Before I learned you are proud but not vain.”
“Proud! Really!”
“Yes, really, and rightfully so.” He came back across the room to her, took her hands in his. “You’re proud of your intellectual accomplishments, and no woman alive has accomplished more. Most Oxford men would envy your knowledge and skill with languages. You’re proud of your upright life. You keep the commandments of God as does no one else I know. You’re proud that few men are your match and none is your better.”
“Do you realize what you just did? We began talking about you, and you switched it around to talking about me. You always do that. Not this time, though. Today we shall talk about the new priest, Father Samuel. What does he feel inside? What does he want? And I don’t mean theologically.”
“He wants Susanna Annesley. He feels he’s waited quite long enough—seven years. Why, that’s the bride price of Rachel and Leah, though Susanna’s worth far more. You see, he has just been appointed a naval chaplain with a stipend of seventy pounds annually, which means at last he can support a wife and family. The penniless days at the college are finally over.” Sam stopped. He took a deep breath. “And now he’s dreadfully afraid that he’s ruined a lovely friendship by letting this all spill out.”
Susanna wanted to jump up and down like a child. She wanted to squeal and hug him, as Anne was wont to do. She could not. She envied at times those persons who could uncork their feelings and let them flow like wine. For all the fire burning in her breast, her head remained cold. “I’m delighted about your appointment! Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I have ruined everything, haven’t I? I can tell. Every time I try to explain how I feel about you, everything goes all a-bumble. I’ve wanted to for years and didn’t because I just knew this very thing would happen.”
He would have let his hands fall away, but she held onto them. “I have just as much difficulty expressing myself in some ways. I understand. And you’ve ruined nothing. Susanna Annesley would be proud to be a part of Samuel Wesley’s life, whether she always shows it or not.”
No one had warned Susanna Annesley that she was not just a scholar and a linguist or the girl of the house haggling with fishmongers. A woman of fire burned beneath the ice, a woman whose nature she had never guessed. She understood at a stroke how Jacob could toil fourteen years for the woman he loved. She still could not define the word love, but she knew from that moment forward that she would toil a lifetime for this man Sam Wesley.