Her question required a response, and he knew his answer would be a disappointment. “I am not a great devotee of poetry.”
“My father wasn’t fond of what he called the new crop of Romantic poets,” she said. “He preferred Pope and Andrew Marvell.”
“Fine poets,” Nicholas agreed. He thought of Marvell’s poemTo His Coy Mistress, a saucy poem enticing his mistress to bed. “Donne, too.”
“I dislike Donne, he is sometimes quite…bawdy.” Her serious gaze sought his as if in defiance. “I prefer Keats.”
“I enjoy Donne’s wit. Melancholy fellow, Keats.”
“But he writes so splendidly of love, beauty, and nature. Surely you must agree.”
“I agree with your father. The Romantics are too self-centered. I can’t say I’m in favor of their work.”
She looked at him aghast. “Indeed, you are wrong. Keats writes of removal of self.”
“Does he? I haven’t seen it.”
“You must read more of his poems…you are missing a great deal.”
Nicholas smiled. “Then I invite you to educate me and change my mind.”
She nodded, a gleam in her eyes. “I shall try.”
While he doubted any discussion would alter his opinion, for he admired those employed in useful industry and poetry which reflected it, rather than these pasty-faced scribes. But he liked to see her eager and fired up with purpose, and he didn’t wish to put a dampener on that. “You might find some music to play for us this evening.”
“I shall be pleased to.”
Nicholas rose and made his way to the door. “Your brother arrives tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait to see him.” Her brow lifted. “He has worried me this past year.”
Nicholas returned to stand before her. “What concerns you? Perhaps I can help?”
“Thank you, but it’s just that he has taken Papa’s death badly. It has unsettled him.”
“That is understandable. But grief eases with time.”
“Does it?”
She sounded doubtful, and he wasn’t sure he believed it either. He hated to see her so troubled. It was true the loss of loved ones never left one completely. The empty chairs at the table at Christmas and family celebrations. Never being able to look upon them and talk about simple, everyday matters. His family had grown so small. He hadn’t been aware of how much that bothered him. “We always miss those we care deeply about, but it becomes easier to bear. Jeremy will soon enjoy life again.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
He turned back to the door. “Give some thought to the Keats’s poem. I look forward to our discussion.”
“Oh yes. So do I. His poetry is most stirring.”
Nicholas left the room. He felt a twinge of envy that this poet’s words could produce such devotion. As he made his way downstairs, he paused on a step at the word ‘stirring.’ At twenty, Carrie was on the brink of discovering life and love. He envied the delightful task that would befall her husband to stir such adoration. If she were his, he would not win her heart by spouting poetry like some gabster. Alarmed at the direction his thoughts took, he continued down the stairs. His sister would nod wisely if she knew. He couldn’t abide Gwen when she was smug. The one time she’d beaten him at chess, she never let him forget it.
He approved of Wordsworth’sLucypoems about a girl’s death but had no wish to take them apart to discuss them.
“No motion has she now, no force…”he quoted as he crossed the hall.
“Were you speaking to me, milord?” his butler asked.
“No, just quoting a few lines of poetry, Abercrombie.”
“Milord?”
