“Good afternoon, madam.”
Startled, Evelyn put her hand to her throat. Her cheeks burned as she recognized the man from earlier. He tipped his cap to her and smiled. Now she could see his eyes, she saw they were deep brown. Kind eyes.
When he spoke, his voice held warmth and strength. She noted the walking stick. Surely he hadn’t had that before.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, but I think I may have seen you earlier?”
“You walked past my cottage.”
“I thought so. My name is Matthew Dixon.” He held out his hand.
She touched it lightly with her gloved hand. “Evelyn Wainwright. Miss,” she added.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Wainwright. Such a glorious day.”
“It is indeed.”
“My doctor tells me I must take exercise, and what better exercise is there than walking on these moors at this time of the year?”
“I quite agree.” Could her responses be more stilted? She, who was never tongue-tied, now sounded like her sister, whose lack of social skills had long been a constant source of regret to Evelyn. She moistened her lips and tried. “Your doctor? You have been unwell, Mr. Dixon?”
“A skiing accident in Switzerland. Entirely my own fault. I managed to fall halfway down a mountain and injured several vertebrae. Put me completely out of action for three months, but I am recovering now. I had to learn to walk again. Hence this.” He tapped the stick. “Although I hope to be rid of it soon. I started out this afternoon without it, but I had barely gone past your cottage when I realized what a mistake I had made, so I returned home and got it. With any luck before the autumn or, if I have my way, next week, I shall be able to consign it to the back of a cupboard for good.” He grinned, and Evelyn smiled. “May I join you for a few minutes? I think I need a short rest before going back.”
“By all means,” Evelyn said, and her companion selected a flat stone opposite her. He eased himself down onto it. “That’s better. Added to an excursion into Halifax this morning, I think I may have done a little too much walking today.”
“Have you lived in Thornton Wensley long, Mr. Dixon?”
“I don’t really live here at all. I am staying in my cousin’s cottage for a few months to recuperate. My home is in Bradford, but my doctors agreed some fresh moorland air would be just the thing to get me back on my feet. I have only been here a short time, but I’m already feeling much stronger, so they’re probably right. How about you, Miss Wainwright?”
“My sister and I moved here a few weeks ago. We lived in Sugden Heath but, following my father’s death, decided the time had come for a change.”
“So here we are.”
“It would appear so, Mr. Dixon.” His easy manner and ability to make her feel at ease in his company made her warm to this man. She liked the way he gazed out over the landscape, clearly appreciating the stunning scenery.
“God’s own country, Yorkshire,” he said at last. “My cousin who owns the cottage prefers the green rolling countryside of Wiltshire, but I find it altogether too pretty. Give me the raw, jagged crags, the marshes and the heather any day.”
Evelyn smiled. Her thoughts exactly. “I love the way the wind whistles over the moor. Like someone sighing.” Her companion nodded, and, out of the corner of her eye, she became aware of him gazing at her intently, as if he was trying to call on some distant memory that remained tantalizingly out of reach.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and a chill passed through her. “I think I will have to start back, Mr. Dixon,” she said, getting to her feet. In an instant, he was there with a steadying hand, his leg apparently not troubling him as much after his rest. “Thank you,” she said as she straightened. “It has been a pleasure to chat with you. I hope we may meet again.” Her mother would not have approved of her being so forward. So what? He did not seem to mind.
“Undoubtedly we shall, Miss Wainwright. I am only a few doors away from you. Please don’t hesitate to call on me if I can be of any help to you or your sister.”
“Thank you. I shall remember that. Good day, Mr. Dixon.”
He tipped his cap to her, and his smile sent a little thrill of excitement up her spine.
Was he watching her as she descended the steep footpath? She could feel someone’s eyes on her. She mustn’t turn around or give any indication she was aware of it. A scuffling sound. Someone walking close up behind her. She quickened her pace. Still she heard the footsteps growing ever closer. Getting louder and more urgent as she stumbled over loose stones and gravel. Her pace had quickened to a run, and breathing was becoming more difficult in her tight corset. Her heart beat faster too. She still had some distance to cover before she reached the lane and the safety of home.
Oh, this is ridiculous.
Evelyn stopped and spun around.
No one there. No sign of Matthew Dixon or anyone else. No footsteps. Only the sighing wind and the solitary curlew circling overhead. She wished with all her heart it could speak.
My imagination running away with me again. Yes, that was all. Altogether too much time spent on living with fictional characters in Calladocia. She smiled at herself and resumed her walk, at a much steadier pace. No more footsteps dogged her, and a few minutes later she arrived back at the cottage.
Claire looked up from the chaise longue and laid her book down. “Enjoy your walk?”
“Yes. I met one of our neighbors – a Mr. Matthew Dixon. He is staying here for a few months while he recuperates from a nasty accident.”
“Oh? Is that why your cheeks are so pink?”
“Are they? I expect it’s the sun. It was quite glorious up there on the moors until it clouded over. Still, it is quite early in the year, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” Claire picked up her book and flicked through a few pages.
Evelyn looked at her reflection in the mirror as she removed her hat, smoothing her hair. Claire was right. Her cheeks were pleasantly flushed, and as for her eyes… Weren’t they a little brighter than usual? Good country air. Healthy. “You should get out more, Claire. You always stay inside. It’s not good for you.”
“I’m perfectly fine with my books and my writing. You’re the outdoors, gregarious type. Not me.”
“I’m not particularly gregarious.”
“Really? You’re out for half an hour and come back with a man in tow.”
“Oh, nonsense, Claire. I was out for over an hour, and Mr. Dixon is not ‘in tow’.”
Claire made a harrumphing noise.
“If you weren’t so obsessed with a dead wastrel, you might actually find the real world has something to offer you.”
Claire threw down her book. “That’s too much, Ev. Branwell was not a wastrel. None of his family understood him and expected far too much. Imagine growing up in a house full of women – none of whom were expecting to be married – and you knew your role was to fulfill everyone’s expectations, be brilliantly successful and able to afford to keep the lot of them, as well as an aging father and yourself? The prospect’s enough to drive anyone to drink.”
Her sister’s voice had been rising hysterically. “Calm down, Claire.” Evelyn made a move toward her sister.
“I will not calm down. I am fed up with your snide remarks about Branwell. If you knew him as I do…” Her voice trailed off, and a horrified look spread across her face, matched, Evelyn knew, by her own.
“Claire, can’t you see what’s happening to you? This obsession of yours is out of hand. You don’t know Branwell. You never met him. He was dead long before you were born. You must take hold of yourself. This is the real world, and the late Branwell Brontë has no place in it.”
Claire’s eyes stared at her out of her pinched white face. “You never understood and you never will. Oh, what’s the point?” Claire charged out of the room, slammed the drawin
g room door so hard the pictures shook, and then stamped up the stairs. Another door slam told Evelyn her sister had closeted herself up in her bedroom. No doubt that would be it for the rest of the day.
* * *
Evelyn couldn’t even tempt Claire downstairs to eat her favorite cottage pie, usually a meal Claire would never miss, even if she felt ill. Evelyn covered the pie dish with muslin and laid her sister’s portion away in the cool of the pantry. She could eat it tomorrow.
She spent a quiet evening by the fire in a room that had turned chilly as the sun set. The glow of the oil lamps gave the room a cozy feel, and Evelyn exhaled as she put her feet up on her mother’s velvet-covered footstool. Her earlier exertions had tired her more than she realized, and in a few minutes her eyes grew heavy and she dozed.
When she awoke, the fire had grown cold. She checked the time. Five minutes past midnight. With a massive yawn, she stood and picked up an oil lamp to light her way to bed.
At the foot of the stairs, her skin prickled. Voices. Coming from upstairs. One unmistakably Claire’s. The other? Was Claire talking to herself? They both did on occasions, but something about this seemed different. Evelyn mounted the staircase. The voices grew louder. At the top of the stairs, she paused outside her sister’s door. The voices had gone quiet now. She must have been imagining it. Or maybe the voices had drifted in from outside in the lane. Passersby on their way home from a visit to the public house perhaps.
Satisfied there was no one but her sister in her room, Evelyn took a step toward her own door, directly opposite.
She froze. That sound. A deep, resonant laugh.
A man’s laugh. And it had come from Claire’s room.
Chapter Three
Claire loved her twin dearly, even if there were times she could cheerfully throttle her. And today had been one of those. So Ev had met a man she had taken a shine to. Maybe the man in question…what was his name? Matthew Dixon. Yes. A good, solid name. Nothing fancy. Perhaps her instant attraction to him had been reciprocated. Claire would have to get a look at him and make sure her sister wasn’t going to make a fool out of herself. After all, she had no one, whereas Claire had…
Claire studied the print of Branwell in silhouette, which took pride of place on her wall. Life had been pretty dull until he had come into her life, and to think she just sort of stumbled over him. Riveted by Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, she had decided to find out all she could about the family. Mrs. Gaskell’s detailed biography of Charlotte had provided an excellent starting point, although the author had been scathing about the only Brontë brother. Claire, ever the supporter of the underdog, had felt sorry for him at first, but, after that wonderful night…
She hugged the memory to her. If she closed her eyes she could see him, standing in her room at Sugden Heath, a glass of brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other. She could even smell the delicious aroma now. If she concentrated…
And then he had smiled at her, taken her hand. Music played from somewhere, and they danced. He held her closer than he should for a couple who had only just met and hadn’t even been formally introduced. But it didn’t matter. What did she and Branwell care for formality and outdated customs?
“Oh, Branwell,” she breathed. “I wish you were here now. I hope you can find me.”
“I would never lose you.” His voice startled her. She peered around the room, which had grown quite dark. She must light a candle. There was one by her bed.
“Branwell?” She fumbled for the small vesta box, flipped it open and extracted a match, which she then struck. The phosphorous blazed brilliantly for a moment, illuminating his face, only for a second. Maybe not so long, but it was enough. Branwell. He had come back. Everything would be fine in her world now.
The candle flickered with every breath she took. “Branwell, are you still here?”
“I’m still here, my love.”
She held the candle at arm’s length, but she couldn’t see him. “Where are you?”
A breath, like a kiss, caressed her cheek. “I am right here. Beside you.”
She touched her cheek, feeling the cool spot. “I have missed you so much, Branwell.”
“And I you, but I am here now.”
“My sister doesn’t believe me.”
“Your sister has other matters in mind. She worries about you.”
“She has met someone today. Maybe he’ll be the one she marries.”
“But not you, my little rose. You are mine.”
“I know, Branwell. Aren’t we lucky?”
“Yes.”
Claire heard the creak of the stairs. “Ev’s coming up. We’d better be quiet until she’s safely tucked up in bed.”
Branwell laughed.
“Shush, she’ll hear you.”
Claire held her breath. Her sister was outside her door. No, she had moved away. Stopped. She whispered to Branwell. “She heard you.”
He whispered back. “What if she did?”
What if she did? He was right. At least she wouldn’t be able to deny anymore. Maybe she should meet Branwell.
A soft click told Claire Ev had closed her bedroom door, hopefully with herself behind it.
“Branwell?”
Silence.
“Are you still there?”
Silence.
Claire lit a candle on her dressing table. It illuminated the other side of the room with a shadowy glow, but enough so she could see the empty space. Branwell had gone. A tear formed in the corner of her eye, and she brushed it away. “Oh, Branwell, why do our meetings have to be so short?”
No one answered her, but on the other side of the room, the candle flickered, sputtered and then went out. The smell of smoke drifted toward her, infused with a faint aroma of cigars.
* * *
“Who were you talking to last night?”
Claire stared past her sister, focusing on the drawing room wall behind her. She hated it when Ev questioned her like that. Her eyes bored into her, leaving nowhere to hide. She could try lying, but her sister would be on to her in an instant. Nothing else for it.
“Branwell.” She held her breath, readying herself for the onslaught she felt sure would follow.
Her sister slammed down her cup so hard onto the saucer Claire braced herself for the shattering of china, but it somehow held together.
“Claire, this delusion of yours has to stop. You couldn’t have been talking to Branwell. Were you talking to yourself?”
Claire bit her lip. “No. I told you. It was Branwell.”
“And how did he get into your room? Did he knock at the door? I’m sure I heard no one and I would have. I sat downstairs the whole evening. Or maybe he shinned up the drainpipe.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.” Claire wished she could take her words back. Too late. They were out there, never to be retrieved.
“What did you say? Ridiculous, am I? May I remind you I am not the one imagining herself to be communing with a ghost. I am not the one disguising her voice and talking to herself. And tell me, when did you take up smoking?”
“I don’t smoke and I don’t talk to myself. You heard Branwell last night. He smoked a cigar.”
Evelyn stared at Claire as if a stranger sat there. Claire wished she could reassure her. Tell her some comforting lie, because at this moment her sister looked bewildered, as if she hadn’t a clue what to do with her.
“I’m going out for a walk,” Evelyn said. “Maybe some time alone will give us both a chance to think.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
Claire washed up the breakfast dishes, her mind racing. How could she convince Ev every word was true? As she finished towel drying the crockery, she made the only possible decision she could.
Ev would have to see – or at least hear – Branwell for herself.
Cl
aire folded the towel neatly over its rail and made her way up to her room. Once inside, she closed the door, seated herself at her dressing table and closed her eyes. She concentrated hard.
Branwell, please come to me, please. I need to talk to you.
The cottage remained silent.
Branwell, please.
Still silence.
Finally, Claire opened her eyes. He hadn’t answered her summons. Her spirits low, she made to stand. Then stopped. A new scent had drifted into the room. Leather and tobacco. Instantly, her mood lightened. He hadn’t ignored her call for help.
“Branwell?”
A faint knocking sound came from the wall opposite. Claire went over to it and listened. The knocking grew louder and she stepped back. This hadn’t happened before. “Branwell, I don’t understand. Are you trying to tell me something?”
The knocking stopped. A heavy silence made Claire hold her breath. A vein throbbed at her temple, and a feeling of trepidation took hold of her. Something about this did not feel right. He had never tried to contact her this way. A breath on her cheek, the faintest of kisses, the aroma of cigar smoke…but never this. Was it even him?
A rattling. It came from the framed self-portrait. Claire watched in horror as the picture swayed and hit the wall repeatedly as if shaken by some unseen hand. Then, without warning, it flew off the wall and crashed on the floor, shattering the frame.
Claire screamed. Outside her door, thumping noises as if someone was slamming their fist into the wall. She threw open her door. Nothing there. Still the thumping continued. It seemed to be coming from all directions at once.
“Stop it! Stop it!”
The noise grew louder. The smell of leather and tobacco evaporated, and a new, unpleasant acrid stench caught at the back of her throat and made her choke. Tears streamed down from her stinging eyes. She staggered back into her room, and the door slammed shut so hard the whole cottage shook.
The Garden of Bewitchment Page 3