“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

difference.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I was aware of violence against women before I read 'Porphyria's

Lover,' but I never really thought much about it. Perhaps it was Providence, but

the day after I read it, I met a young woman in a dangerous situation. I couldn't

bear the thought of her ending up like poor Porphyria, so I married her. I would

never have given her a second thought, and certainly not done what I did, except

the murder in that poem was so fresh on my mind. You made me aware. That poem saved her life.”

Browning smiled. “Ah, well, thank you for telling me. Your marriage?”

Christopher beamed. “It's very good. We're happy.”

Browning nodded. “I'm glad for you then. She's like a grain of sand though.”

“I know. It's sadly true. There are too many innocent victims, but until the

laws are changed, we can only do what we can do. I can't save them all, but I saved this one. That matters. Your role in it matters. Thank you, Mr. Browning,

for having the courage to write what you did.”

The man's mouth turned down. “Everyone hates it.”

“Guilt,” Christopher suggested.

“Perhaps.”

“And perhaps the time is still not right for the larger society to embrace it, but I know your poetry will continue to make a difference. I intend to keep sharing it and to keep speaking out. Please, don't give up. Your work is so important.”

“I won't. It's hard as hell to swim upstream, but I will persevere. I must.”