“Hush now,” I said, more to reassure me than her. Catherine, the ghost of what I could have been and one day still could, would, be.
The silence became terrible, like audible darkness.
The weight of it pressed on me, but the truth took some minutes to register.
Silence meant she was no longer breathing.
Lady Scott had gone.
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, FINALLY, Sir Edward and I were alone.
Since the moment when Death had transformed Great Barr, when the nurse had found me, staring at Catherine’s cooling hand in mine, he and I had had only hasty conversations. These were a reprieve for him between dealing with undertakers and clergy, comforting the “boys,” and greeting relations. But they were sweet manna to me.
I’d been tied to the sickroom for so long I wasn’t sure what to do with myself now I had my freedom. I practiced the piano, drifting from one tune to the next, or read a few pages of the latest novel Mr. Bellerby had sent me—Jane Eyre by one Currer Bell. The topic, however, the life of a governess, held little interest for me. What did a governess, barely out of the nursery herself, know of life and love?
“Oh, Lydia,” Sir Edward said, closing the parlor door and walking over to me. “Tell me it gets easier.”
“It gets easier,” I said, mechanically.
He sat next to me on the low divan and leaned his head on my shoulder.
“Once the service is over, everyone will leave and—”
“But it does me good to have the boys here,” Sir Edward said, raising his head.
“Of course. But, I mean, we will be just us.”
He said nothing.
What if he didn’t want me now all obstacles were gone? What if I never had him to myself again? Or had never had him at all, had merely acted the part of a diversion?
“How much longer need we wait?” I blurted out.
Sir Edward cocked an eyebrow. For me, asking this was the culmination of constant and many questions, but my plea had taken him by surprise.
“Mightn’t you wait until Catherine is buried, at least, Lydia?” There was an edge in his voice.
I chose to ignore it. “But how much longer after that?”
“I hardly see any harm in waiting.” Sir Edward slid open his initialed case and started to play with a cigar, spinning it between his hands before chewing the end. I doubted he had any intention of lighting it.
“That is easy for you to say,” I whispered.
“Hmm?”
“I said, ‘That is easy for you to say,’ ” I repeated a little louder, shocking him into replacing his cigar in the case. “But for me, my whole life has been waiting. Waiting to be asked, waiting to be visited. Human beings must have action, or they will make it themselves. When I think of myself, it is as a figure standing at the window, or poised for laughter should the gentlemen enter the drawing room, or listening for the squeak of my bedroom door hinges at night. Waiting is all there is. That’s all I’ve had and I can’t—I won’t—have it anymore.” I made to stand but Sir Edward caught me by the elbow and reeled me to him. The final words of my tirade were muffled against his chest.
“I know you are upset, Lydia,” he said.
“But you don’t know,” I said, pulling away. “I have been waiting for you since I was a girl. You should have been mine, but you chose her—Catherine. And if you’d only waited a year or two, it might have been me.”
My hurt was foolish when said aloud. For the first time, one of our interactions was slipping from my control. I followed the pattern of the rich red rug under my slippers to try to right myself.
Sir Edward caught my hand and kissed it. “You are a goose, Lydia. Did I really meet you back then?”
I nodded through my welling tears.
“We will marry soon,” he said. “Just a few months more. I promise. I have been thinking that dear Lady Bateman might manage things. She is a sensible woman, for all she was fond of Catherine. She will know how to make this right.”
My tears dried. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.
This was it. I had won the laurel in the first negotiation in the first chapter of our marriage. So why wasn’t I happy?
* * *
THERE WAS SO MUCH to arrange, even though Sir Edward and I had agreed on the wedding being a quiet and modest occasion. Lady Bateman, who’d promised to “see to everything,” sent missives from Bath each day asking about flowers, guests, dainty dishes. Acquaintances of Sir Edward whose names I barely knew had their wives write notes to me. And I was obliged to answer these with thanks, although I knew what those women must say of me behind my back.
I’d had a desk set up in the parlor, so I could stare out the window across the grounds while I worked. I’d been productive today. It was easier to make headway when Sir Edward was in London on business. The sun was setting over Great Barr, bringing a hard day of harvesting to a golden end. If only there was a pond at Great Barr Hall to reflect the sky. I did miss the Thorp Green one a little. I’d never have my ornate fountain now.
A rap at the door. One of Great Barr’s innumerable servants.
“I’m busy,” I called.
“But, madam, your daughter is here,” said the maid.
My daughter? Bessy and Mary were such a pair to me now that when she spoke in the singular, I could only think it was Lydia. But why? I had sent her and her actor husband money enough for now, hadn’t I?
“Should I send her in, ma’am?” she asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer.
“Mama.”
I blinked. This wasn’t Lydia but my little Mary, and she didn’t look so little at all. She was standing taller and wearing new clothes that I certainly hadn’t paid for—a deep jade riding jacket with a skirt in a red-and-green tartan.
“Are you well, Mama?” she asked. “You look unhappy.”
“Unhappy? No,” I said, standing and scraping back my chair. “I am surprised. How did you get here?”
She couldn’t have been in another stagecoach or walked very far. Her hair was perfect, pinned high and shining almost as brightly as Lydia’s for all it was that awkward middling color.
“Uncle William brought me in his carriage. But he doesn’t wish to come inside,” she added.
I hadn’t been planning to offer.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
Mary gulped. So she was nervous too, for all her fine airs and new gown.
“Should we sit?”
She nodded.
We dropped down side by side on the divan, only our skirts touching.
“Mother,” she said, with more formality than her usual “Mama.” “I am going to be married. In three weeks.”
“You?” She didn’t like that so I moderated my tone. “You are very young, Mary.”
“I am twenty years old.”
“And what if I—?”
“Uncle William and Uncle Charles say you must not stand in my way. That you are to sign, or have your lawyer sign, whatever documents they give you.”
“I see.” Another daughter launching herself into the world without so much as my blessing. “Who is he, your bridegroom?”
“His name is Henry Clapham. His is the family near Keighley. They own those Yorkshire paper mills.”
Ah, these stupid girls and their Henrys. But Mary was making the opposite mistake to her sister, beautiful, foolish Lydia, who had married a penniless boy for love.
“You are William Evans’s chattel, then? To be traded as he sees fit?” I asked.
Mary shook. “It is too late, Mama,” she said.
“Not for you.” I gripped her arm. She had been such a guileless, affectionate child. Had I been the one who taught her this harsh pragmatism?
“Auntie and Uncle have been good to me since Papa died,” she said. “They have looked to my prospects when, as the youngest daughter, I might have been overlooked.”
“They have used you for their own ends.”
Mary’s expression wasn’t one of sorrow or fear. She simply didn’t understand. And how could she? Her whole life I had sought to sell her to the highest bidder. I had raised her and her sisters as I had been raised myself: as prize pigs, on a diet of worthless promises and useless talents. And now I scolded her for going willingly to the slaughter.
“Do you love this Henry Clapham?” I asked, stroking her arm and trying a different tack.
She shrugged. “Did you love Papa?”
“I loved the idea of him, the idea of being married, and, of course, I grew fond of him,” I said, my heart opening up as it did with music. “But, my darling, that isn’t enough. We have as much passion as men do and full as much heart. Small morsels of affection won’t be enough to sustain you. Your spirit will yearn to address another, to—”
“I am not interested in what drew you to Mr. Brontë, Mama,” said Mary, twisting from me.
She was wrong, of course. I’d never had that kind of communion with anyone. Branwell had loved only the dream of me, had made the same mistakes I had years—decades—before, when I hadn’t seen Edmund so much for who he was but for who I wished him to be. And I’d loved Branwell for a time only for what he gave me, not for who he was. Nor would I have such mutual understanding with Sir Edward now. There were the shadows of too many secrets across us. The ghosts of Edmund and Catherine would stalk our dreams and beat against the panes of our bedroom window at night. Lady Scott’s name, now my own, would mock me in every mouth and in every letter.
Mary stood and walked to the desk.
I focused on the ceiling and the tremble of the crystals in the chandelier. They were perfect, vibrating raindrops, threatening to fall.
“Mama, I brought a letter for you.” She picked up Sir Edward’s ivory-handled paper knife and handed it to me along with small note. A message from her future in-laws? Or my sister?
Glancing down, I nearly stabbed myself at the return address:
The Parsonage, Haworth
Why now? It had been a long time since Branwell had written. Dr. Crosby had proved a loyal friend to me, keeping him at bay, and there had been a total silence of some months when even the doctor had heard nothing, and without a single payment required. But this didn’t look like Branwell’s hand, though I couldn’t be sure. Funny how quickly you forgot details you once treasured.
I needed to breathe. Branwell was far away, at Haworth, and even if he was not, news of his reappearance if it traveled to Sir Edward would be confirmation of the story I had fed him, the story I’d almost started to believe myself.
I sliced the letter open and set the knife beside me.
Mary paced the room.
20th September 1848
The Parsonage, Haworth
Mrs. Robinson,
I did not think we would ever write to each other again and the Lord knows it pains me to do so now. But Branwell is gravely ill—indeed, dying—and I could not live with myself were I not to tell you and give you a chance to offer him some peace. He speaks of you often in his delirium, recites snatches of poetry meant for you, and sketches your face between pictures of the ghouls that torment him. Charlotte and I bid him pray, but it is your name he calls out in the night.
If you can come to him, do. I do not ask for your money. Or your pity for myself. But have compassion for Branwell and my father and my sisters. They suffer so to see the son who was our dearest hope reduced to this.
Sincerely, I remain,
Anne Brontë
I let out a low cry.
“Is something the matter, Mama?” asked Mary. “Are you well?”
“Mr. Brontë is dying,” I told her, my voice cracking.
The pacing stopped.
“Poor Miss Brontë,” she said.
Mary pitied her? The pain inside me moved from my heart to my gut. I doubled over but would not let myself cry.
“She hadn’t mentioned he was ill, though Bessy and I have been writing to her,” my daughter said from somewhere far away.
I couldn’t look up.
“We will visit her, of course, once I’m married and live so close to Haworth. Should you like me to carry her a message from you?”
“A message?” I repeated, managing to raise my head. “No, I have no message for Miss Brontë.”
She nodded. “Then good-bye, Mama. Uncle will leave the paperwork with the butler. Bessy and I will not be at the wedding, but I wish you and Sir Edward every happiness.”
With that, Mary glided to the door, the plainest of my daughters all at once the finest, ready to cast off on the adventure that I had ill prepared her for.
* * *
“WILLIAM!” I CRIED. “WILLIAM!” I tumbled into the Great Barr stables, a carpetbag in my hands, my hair coming loose from its pins.
Two grooms I did not recognize doffed their hats and glanced at each other. Seconds later, William Allison appeared between them, a horse brush in his hand. Thank God it was the other coachman who’d taken Sir Edward to London.
“Mrs. Robinson,” he said, gesturing to the others that they should return to stacking the hay. “Can I be of service?”
He wasn’t in his livery. His forearms were exposed and dirty, with a stark line below his elbows where tan met white. He steered me out into the sunshine as I composed myself to answer, more concerned for my reputation than I was.
“I need to go to Haworth,” I told him, dispensing with all explanation and clasping one of his hands in mine. “Now.”
“The master has the carriage,” he said, matching my bluntness. “And it’s a fair distance from here t’there.”
“We’ll take a smaller vehicle, the dogcart, and travel through the night. Please, William. I need you.”
He nodded grimly. “It’s thanks to you I have this job, ma’am. We go where you command.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said, dashing myself against his chest. “Thank you.”
“Give me half an hour to ready the horses, ma’am,” he said, patting my back. “Then we’ll be on our way.”
* * *
WHY WAS I FLYING to Branwell? What could I say to him? There were long, lurching hours through the night to ponder these questions between stops at inns, where the horses had water, William his pipe, I mugs of small beer.
William and I didn’t speak as we sat side by side in the dogcart, knocking against each other. I slept fitfully now and then, falling onto his shoulder, but I never saw him yawn, though he must have been helping in the fields all through the day.
I’d never been so impetuous and yet, for once, it felt as if I were doing something right. I hadn’t helped Lydia or Mary. Edmund and I had never learned to open our hearts to each other. But perhaps Branwell I could save and bring back to himself. And in doing so, I would prove to Anne, and to Charlotte, that I wasn’t such a monster, not so wretched a woman at all.
It was Sunday morning. Several church bells were clanging as we rounded the hill that brought Haworth into sight. High smokeless chimneys, idle for the Sabbath, low, slated cottages clinging to the steep streets, a miasma of rain and something thicker clouding the atmosphere, frizzing my hair and invading my throat.
We didn’t need to stop to ask the way. William had been here before.
He drew the horses to a stop beside an inn where the ground was level and pointed up the main street. “Walk to the top, then past the church on your left. You’ll see the parsonage, all right, ma’am—there’s nought but moor beyond.”
Good William. He understood. This was something I must do alone.
It was hard to hold my handkerchief to my mouth and lift my skirts to avoid the horse dung. The incline was sharp, knocking the breath out of me, though I could roam the flat country around Thorp Green or Allestree or Great Barr for hours.
What if Branwell were better and the Brontës were all at church? Or there had been a change for the worse and the family wouldn’t let me enter his sickroom?
I turned left at the church as instructed. There was
the parsonage just as Branwell had described it, with a sea of gravestones to the front and a vast expanse of nothingness to the rear. I knew that was the moor, the siblings’ playground, where Emily would lose herself for hours. But the clouds were so low I could see nothing but gray. This might have been the edge of the earth.
Just then, what I’d taken to be one of the gravestones—short, gray, and drab—moved.
It was a woman.
I found a gate and picked my way between the memorials—six, seven, sometimes twelve names to a stone.
The woman moved toward me, without needing to look down to find her way.
We each knew who the other was as if by magic.
“Charlotte?” I said, when we were mere feet apart.
She nodded. “Mrs. Robinson?”
I nodded too.
I stared at her, trying to compare her to the figure who’d haunted my dreams and daydreams, and detect any trace of Branwell in the woman he thought of as his twin.
Branwell wasn’t a tall man, but Charlotte was tiny. She must have been less than five feet. Her brown hair was fine and parted down the middle. When she took off her glasses to wipe away the rain, I saw that her eyes were dark, beady, and rimmed with red. As his had been, the first day.
“Anne wrote,” I said, nervous around her, though she was even less imposing than her youngest sister. “I came to see Branwell.”
“My brother was taken from us this morning,” Charlotte said, meeting my gaze steadily.
“No!” I cried. “How?”
She tilted her head to survey me. “His body and soul could struggle no longer under the ravages that he and others had caused them, and he went to our Maker.”
She looked surprised when my body convulsed, still more so when I slumped onto a nearby fallen tablet. It was edged with lichen. Each letter was a rivulet of rain and mud.
“He spoke of you to the last,” she said, her voice strained. “But be assured that all writings and sketches from his hand which could be said to impugn your character are destroyed. All that I could uncover, at least.”
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