He loved her with a fierce passion, and she loved him. She had said it, and
sung it, and meant it. He believed her.
A gust of wind cut through Christopher's coat and made him shiver.
“Blast.” The breeze carried with it a nearby voice, as well as a crumpled paper covered in messy handwriting and scratched-out errors. Christopher
picked it up. Nearby, another sheet tumbled past, and then another. He began collecting them, following the trail of papers back to the source. On the other end, he found a gentleman, a bit older than himself, with a full and bushy chestnut beard, but no mustache at all. The man was frantically scooping up scattered sheets as he went. Silently Christopher bent to help, and eventually returned a large pile to the stranger.
“Is that all of them?” the bearded man asked in perfect, unaccented English.
“I believe so, sir,” Christopher replied.
“Excellent. Thank you for your help.” He gathered the papers into a folio and
set it down, holding it shut against the wind with a rock. Then he extended his
hand.
“You're welcome.” They shook. “I'm Christopher Bennett, by the way.”
“Welcome to Florence. Are you relocating?” the stranger asked.
“No, I'm here on my honeymoon. My wife's family owns the estate nearby,”
Christopher explained.
“The Bianchis?” At Christopher's nod, the man commented, “They're good
folk.”
“They are,” he agreed. “And your name, sir?”
The man grinned, seeming to realize he'd forgotten his manners. “Oh, my
name is Robert Browning.”
Christopher's jaw dropped. “The poet Robert Browning?”
“You've heard of me?” The man's eyes widened in shock.
“Yes,” Christopher replied fervently. “I've read your poems. My goodness, I
had no idea you lived here.”
“Well,” Browning said in a gruff voice, “my wife's father isn't keen on me.
We thought it best to live far away.”
Christopher grinned. “I can relate to that. It's an honor to meet you.”
“Thank you. Most people know my wife better.”
How awkward to be less well known in your field than your wife. “I'm sure,
but my friends and I, we discovered your poems. You made us think.”
“Good. That was the goal. It's a shame no one else cares. I'm tempted to give
it up. I probably would except… the muse is a terrible mistress.”
“I'm glad to hear you're persevering,” Christopher said. “It's difficult to fight
for an unpopular cause, especially in the absence of recognition, but it is worth
it. You know, my father owns a cotton mill.”
Browning crooked one eyebrow.
“It's a progressive mill. We would get more profits if we exploited our
workers, but we won't. We've always tried to be aware of our workers' needs.”
Browning looked lost. “Why are you telling me this, Mr. Bennett?”
“Because if something my father and I have done has made a difference to a
person in need, I like to know,” Christopher explained. “Reminds me of the reasons we do what we do. So, I wanted you to know that… you made a
