Bronte's Mistress

by Finola Austin

  Relief flooded through me, stemmed only by the thought that in one short week, Branwell would return. And days after that, we’d all be in Scarborough where the holiday spirit and our close quarters would make enforcing distance even harder.

  I’d avoided Branwell for the last few days as Anne had me, without incident so far, but he wouldn’t give up that easily. He wouldn’t have the sense of an older man to know when love—or something like it—had run its course, and was best treasured only as a memory for those nights when the moonlight makes romantics, and loneliness fools, of us.

  “Lydia.” The door opened as Edmund said my name. He stepped inside and closed it.

  “Ed—”

  “No.” He raised his hand and walked toward me. “Do not speak.”

  There was something new in his eyes. Was it anger or the passion I could scarcely remember?

  “It has been a taxing week,” he said. “First, our daughters’ governess quits her post with little by way of warning or explanation. And today I have the pleasure of receiving a visit from another disgruntled servant, the housekeeper, Miss Sewell.” He took another stride.

  Miss Sewell, the shadow at my steps and the constant rap-a-tap-tap at my door. In the last few days, she’d become more insistent, even once forcing herself into my presence and naming a lump sum in addition to her previous requests. I’d been unable to parry her thrusts, had placated her with weak promises that mustn’t have been enough.

  “That woman—” I started now.

  “No,” said Edmund.

  “But—”

  He grabbed me by the throat and pushed me against the wall.

  The power of his body knocked the breath out of me, as did the control he was exerting over me more than the strength of his grip, which was loose (he was, after all, still unwell). In it was the promise that he could squeeze with ease were he to want to, were I deserving of his hatred, and were he the bully I had painted him to Branwell.

  I pressed the pads of my fingers against the embossed wallpaper in a halfhearted attempt to free myself.

  “Miss Sewell came to my study,” he continued, softening his grip but not moving away. “It appears our housekeeper is suffering under some”—here he paused—“misconceptions regarding your relationship with the tutor, Mr. Brontë.”

  He released my neck, and I gave an exaggerated gasp. Would it mark? If it did, I would wear the bruise like a medallion, proof that somewhere, deep down, my husband still cared.

  “I have, of course, corrected her,” Edmund said, staring at the intricate pattern in the Indian rug rather than at me. “And I gave her some money to thank her for her concern. But it is necessary—no, crucial—that you never give our staff cause for speculation again.”

  “Then send Mr. Brontë away!” I cried, the opportunity opening like a gate before me. I lurched for Edmund’s hand but caught only his wrist. Maybe he would overpower me, strike me, force himself on me. Maybe, at last, I would goad him into acting like a man. “We could be rid of both of them—the Brontës,” I said. “We need only send the tutor’s things after them to Haworth.”

  In the moments since they’d left, I’d grown more certain: I had to make an end of things with Branwell. Affairs had careened too far out of my control.

  “And what would be said of us then? Of you?” Edmund drew back, his passion evaporating, and shook me off like a fly. “No, Lydia, you must learn self-control and to curb your natural—” He could not complete the sentence. “Dr. Crosby could prescribe you something.”

  I laughed and turned to press my palms into the wall, as if I were in labor and doubling over with the pain of it.

  “Edmund.” I was not sure what to say, but hoped that by speaking his name I could convey the warmth that still spread through me at the thought of our early years, when we’d slept in each other’s arms every night in a space only wide enough for one, the closeness that comes when you know the contours of another’s mind and body as intimately as you know your own, the pattern of the hours, days, decades we’d spent together since.

  “Enough!” he cried. “I am your husband, Lydia, and I command you to act in accordance with your station.” The door slammed hard behind him.

  27th June 1845

  Great Ouseburn

  My dear Mrs. Robinson,

  I have given some thought these last days to the conundrum you confided in me during our last consultation. I mean, of course, how to dispose of Mr. Brontë.

  I must, in a professional capacity, beg for a report on your nerves before I go any further. Are you still confined to bed? Do send me word by the illiterate boy who bears this letter from Great Ouseburn. For appearances’ sake, yes, but also due to my very real concern for you.

  I have thought, as I said, on the difficulty before you, and a solution may, at a most opportune time, have presented itself.

  You will have heard, I know, that a date is set at last for the opening of the new railway line, between York and Scarborough. On the 7th of next month, that is to say in ten days, when you and your family have already arrived in Scarborough, a celebration is to be held in York in honor of the momentous occasion.

  The committee has planned a great breakfast, which will be attended by many gentlemen connected to the railway. They’ll talk mechanics and dynamite, quaff champagne, and toast to the success of their investments, before waving off the train on her maiden voyage into previously uncharted waters.

  A veritable bore, but it appears I must go and so, I say, should Mr. Brontë.

  What could be more natural? Most of us from the Lodge will be there. What’s more, Branwell is a former railway man and is sure to see some old acquaintances. That engineer friend of his, Gooch, for one, is sure to attend.

  And you? Why not indulge your tutor’s hobbyist interest in locomotives and bid him stay at Thorp Green Hall once he returns to you? With no governess for the girls, give Master Ned a holiday from his studies likewise and enjoy Scarborough with a smaller party than in previous years.

  I will watch Brontë and ensure he doesn’t overdo it at the breakfast. It wouldn’t do for him to give in to his natural exuberance, which he’s given rein to a little too liberally in our recent meetings. And I will attempt to impress upon him, subtly at first, that if he cares for you, he must resign before you return from Scarborough and put an end to all close communication between you.

  I have never been of the belief that absence makes the heart grow fonder. A separation of a month is just what the boy needs to see reason. I will school him to make the right choice.

  Send me word of how you like my plan.

  I remain your humble servant,

  Dr. John Crosby

  27th June 1845

  Thorp Green Hall

  Dear John,

  I am as well as can be expected and better for receiving your letter. It is the very thing. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your friendship and assistance. It is a kindness to us both. Yes, to Mr. Brontë too. For he needs constant supervision to keep him from the drink. It is best that he go home to Haworth where his father and sisters may care for him.

  Yours very truly, with gratitude,

  Lydia

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “YOU HAVE TO COME with me, ma’am. Now.” Panic was written across Marshall’s wan face.

  “What is it? It is not—? Is he here?”

  She nodded, and I gripped her arm tight.

  “Lydia, must you whisper with the servants?” my mother-in-law called across the front room of our Scarborough lodgings. She was lying on the chaise with her eyes, mercifully, closed, fatigued from “too much sunlight.”

  “I’m not whispering. Maybe you’re going deaf?” I called out as loudly as I could without shouting.

  I steered Marshall through the door, down the hallway, and into the garden.

  “Well?” I rounded on her.

  “You dismissed me for an hour or so, ma’am, and so I went with the others to see the new train come
in from York.”

  “The others?” I squeezed tighter.

  “Just some of the Scarborough servants, ma’am. Nobody as knows Mr. Brontë.”

  “Go on, go on.” A lump was rising in my throat as it had when I was a girl and one of my brothers had run to Father, saying I’d struck him. And I had. But I’d had right on my side, and if anyone else had had such a provoking brother, they would have done the same, and even if they wouldn’t have, well, that was my mother and father’s fault too, wasn’t it? For where was I to learn except from them?

  Marshall looked at her arm, and I released her.

  She spoke on. “It was such a to-do. Hundreds of folks had gathered, with the children and women waving flags and handkerchiefs, and street sellers racing their model engines. I never seen nothing like it. Then the train was here with a confusion of noise and smoke. A lady fainted away at the sound of the whistle. It rounded the corner so fast I must say it took my breath away. Gentlemen spilled out of all the carriages, brandishing their top hats, their faces red from the thrill of it, and the wine I daresay.”

  “Never mind all that, Marshall. Mr. Brontë was there?”

  So much for John Crosby’s promises: I will watch Brontë and ensure he doesn’t overdo it. It was always the same when men got together, away from the critical eyes of their womenfolk.

  “I was about to turn back when I saw him emerge,” said Marshall. “He was one of the last. I couldn’t believe my two eyes, but it was him, all right. On the platform and swaying so much I feared he would fall onto the tracks. I sent the others away, said he was a cousin of mine, for I was afraid what he might say of you. When I reached him, he was talking of the railway, how they’d ill treated him once and had now done so again.”

  “But did he come with you without protest?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. He recognized me all right, though he said once or twice you might have greeted him yourself. How he thought you knew he’d be on the train, I don’t know. Kept talking about souls, he did. Connections, messages that can be sent through the air. At first, I thought he was talking of the telegraph, but I reckon it was some sort of magic. Love that defies the laws of nature and even God, madam. That’s what he said. There was no reasoning with him, so I put my efforts into helping him walk straight. He’s safe now. And I fetched him some water.”

  The wind stirred, buffeting the grass and forcing the sunflowers into graceful and sweeping bows.

  “Oh, Ann Marshall,” I said, overflowing with a sudden rush of tenderness toward her. “You are the best servant that a lady could ask for.”

  Her cratered face flushed crimson in patches, but her expression registered only alarm. Servants hate nothing more than when their masters act out of character. “But whatever’s to be done with Mr. Brontë, madam?” she asked. “Will you see him?”

  My heart was tied to a spiraling anchor. “I suppose I must,” I said.

  She led the way past the buildings that made up the holidaymakers’ homes, around the stable where I’d found Lydia with the acting boy—was that only a year ago?—and along a path that snaked down the side of the Cliff itself, a path I’d chided Ned for using once. It was rocky and steep with no railing. One misstep and you’d tumble like an acrobat to the crowded beach below.

  “Where on earth are we going?” I called after Marshall, struggling to keep my footing for the third or fourth time. My ankles were weak. On terrain like this, it was tricky to keep to my pattern. Left, right; left, right. I didn’t like to stop on an uneven number.

  “We servants call it ‘the boathouse,’ madam.” She turned to face me so her voice wouldn’t fly from us on the wind. Strands of her hair had come loose from her exertions in the last hour. They streamed around her like a mousy gray mane.

  “A boathouse? Up here?”

  I didn’t think she could hear me, but she understood the sentiment.

  “It’s more of a shed, ma’am. You’ll see.”

  Clinging to the promontory was a shack, scarcely six feet high and only a little broader, with an ill-fitting door and holes in the roof. No one would think to lug a boat up here unless it was in pieces.

  Marshall fought with the door to hold it open for me. Mr. Brontë didn’t come to her aid. There was just a gaping void where light and warmth would have welcomed me had this been a home. Had the tutor been capable of giving one to me.

  “Go!” I cried to Marshall, when we were at last opposite each other, the door threatening to whack into me were she to lose her grip. “Leave me!”

  “But—” At least I thought she called “but,” but the wind was even louder now and pelting sand at us, as if for ignoring its angry roar.

  “Go!” I screamed again.

  This time she obeyed.

  I’d just fallen inside when the door closed behind me, shaking the building to its seams.

  Darkness and dust, the distinctive tang of men’s urine and the taste of tobacco.

  “Branwell?” I ventured, with the same softness I’d adopted for Ned after nightmares. “Branwell, it is me. Don’t be frightened.”

  “There, there, she’s come for me. I told you!” I made out Branwell, delirious, crouched in a corner, talking to the walls of the dingy hut. He looked bad, even worse than that day long ago in the Monk’s House. His face was pale, his shirt was untucked, and he seemed to have misplaced his coat.

  “Branwell.” I dropped to my knees beside him, entangling my skirts in the cobwebs. What would Edmund’s mother say were she to see me now? “Branwell,” I said again. “Why are you here?”

  “Why am I—?” he repeated, but the sentence trailed off. His pupils were so wide that his eyes had lost their blue. Had he only been drinking or had he tasted something stronger? “Why, to save you, Lydia. Crosby—”

  “What of Dr. Crosby?”

  “He delivered the death blow. Is it true, Lydia?” He grabbed my arms and shook me. “Am I to be banished forever from your sight?”

  “Things cannot go on as they are,” I said, slow and measured, wishing I’d bidden Marshall stay so that I had a protector here beside me. “You need to go home. To your father. To Emily and Anne. And to Charlotte.”

  “But, Lydia, I love you.”

  Branwell had told me that a thousand times, but this one hit me, strong and true as an arrow with a poisoned tip. I nearly called out in surprise at how it conjured Edmund before me, young and shy at confessing the mundane secret of his heart to mine for the first time. We’d been in the library of Yoxall Lodge, while our elders, who’d seen it all before, waited a few rooms away, hushed and mock-reverent as you are with children, counting the interminable days and hours until Christmas.

  But Branwell was young, behind. He did not know. He felt each cut as if it were the first. I had been subject to vivisection upon vivisection, in public and in private, had had men peer at my most private parts, examine my soul with judging eyes, prescribe me drugs and rest and prayer to fix me.

  “I am sorry,” I said, kissing his crown. My tenderness surprised me. By God, I missed Georgiana, the smell of her, the soft wisps of her newly curling hair.

  I felt hope stir in Branwell at this act of compassion on my part, but for me, the end was definite. There was no way back now that he was not just a boy but an infant to me, bare of armor, yesterday’s fool.

  A cough.

  The far wall moved.

  And—

  No, it wasn’t a wall at all. The gardener, Bob Pottage, appeared through the gloom. He’d been here the whole time. He’d seen everything. His eyes were wide, transfixed at the scene before him, and he was deathly white.

  “Bob—Mr. Pottage—” I started.

  It was not one of the Sewells, at least, or William Allison, who’d always thought so well of me. Just soulless, stupid Bob Pottage, who spent his days thinking about cabbages and rosebushes, who understood that steady, predictable propagation, not the intricate irregularities of the human heart.

  “I didn’t believe it, madam
,” Pottage stuttered. “Though Mr. Sewell and his sister said—I didn’t believe it, e’en when Mr. Brontë spoke of you so.” He pointed an accusing finger at Branwell. “I just came in here for a smoke. The other missus, the master’s mother, hates the smell of it about the garden and stables. But I found him layin’ here. The way he spoke of you! I’d have gi’en him a good braying had he been himself and not in the drink.”

  Clumsy, stammering man. And now he held my heart like a quavering nestling in his rough, unready hand.

  “Bob!” I crawled forward and grabbed him by the ankle. Lydia had done that to me at two or three years old when she’d screeched so loud I thought the house would fall around us. “Keep our secret, my secret. I’ll do anything.”

  “I’m an honest family man, madam. I’ve got six bairns.” Pottage jerked his foot away from me, disgusted.

  I hadn’t meant what he thought. But give yourself to one man, and they’ll all think you’d just as easily give yourself to them, or, perhaps, that you have nothing else to offer.

  “You have to help me.” My tears fell unheeded to the damp and uneven stone. “At the very least, take him away.” I gestured toward Branwell, who was hiccupping beside me.

  “That, ma’am, I can do,” Pottage said. He grasped Branwell’s collar between his calloused workman’s hands and hauled him toward the door.

  * * *

  FOR NINE DAYS I waited, breathless, for the death knell. The railway between Scarborough and York had opened a dangerous portal between my world and Branwell’s, a gaping wound that cut through fields and hills, obliterating paths trodden by peasants for centuries, revealing England’s murky insides, perhaps even disrupting time itself.

  Still Branwell’s expected letter of resignation did not come. Only several notes of apology from Dr. Crosby, which I ignored. I was petrified, unable to dismiss Branwell myself, for Ned’s education was Edmund’s domain, or to beg my husband to do so, given his anger the day the Brontës had left for Haworth.