by Jill Jones
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my Only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time’s all-wearing wave?
Late afternoon was rapidly turning into early evening, and Alex was once again travel-weary, but he splashed cold water over his face and shook his head. It had taken him thirty-four years to get here. He had a lot to see and do. He could sleep when he, like those souls outside his window, was dead. Donning a heavy sweater under the mackintosh, he left the room.
Outside, a golden evening sun was successfully dispersing the earlier clouds. The air was clear and surprisingly unpolluted. From what Alex had read about the history of Haworth, he had envisioned a dingy, smog-filled town with factories belching heavy coal smoke into the air.
That was then and this is now, he reminded himself. Many of the textile mills in this valley had long since shut down.
Good for the air.
Bad for the economy.
He wondered what Haworth survived on now. Tourism? It hardly seemed possible. People like him who knew and loved the work of the Brontës came on literary pilgrimages, he figured. But in a world of television addicts, the percentage of any given population who even knew who the Brontës were had to be minuscule.
He mounted the steps that led to the church next to the Black Bull. Not fifty feet from his window at the inn, beneath the floor of this sanctuary, all of the Brontë family except Anne lay buried. Unfortunately, it was not the same church in which Patrick Brontë had held forth for almost four decades.
After his death, the new curate had wrought many changes in both the church and the Parsonage. The church, in fact, had been completely rebuilt in the late 1870s, a fact that Alex found appalling, considering the historical importance of the original building.
He entered the hushed and darkened chapel and walked down the aisle toward the altar. Above, a large stained-glass window let in most of the light that illuminated the gray stone walls and dark pews. Alex stood quietly, letting his eyes travel over the small church, as if seeking the spirits of those who had been the objects of his years of study. Somewhere they lay buried beneath this floor, only feet from where he stood.
Looking down, his gaze fell on a small, well-polished brass plaque set into the floor;
In memory of
Emily Jane Brontë
Who died December 19, 1848
And of Charlotte Brontë
Born April 21, 1816
Died March 31, 1855.
Alex discovered later that the graves were actually beneath the supporting concrete column to his right, supposedly sealed and forever inaccessible. It was as if the new curate had sought to wipe out all traces of his famous predecessor and leave his own jealous stamp on the curacy.
At the moment, Alex stood frozen to the spot. He noted that someone had placed a sprig of dried heather in a small vase on the brass plate. Someone who had loved Emily for as long and as well as he?
Alex exhaled a slow breath and sat down on the first pew, staring at the memorial. Emily Brontë was the love of his life right now, he thought morosely, maybe even the only woman he would ever love, safe as she was across time.
June 29, 1845
Tomorrow Anne and I depart for a short holiday in York. I must act as if I am anxious to go, when in truth I want nothing to do with York. Let Charlotte go instead! Then I would truly be free to spend my days upon the moors, for there is where my heart lies.
Never in all of Angria or Gondal have I found such a hero! He is dark, yes, and brooding, but when he laughs (rarely) his face lights up like a bright summer morn. He is like me, free in spirit, but unlike me, he is unhampered by life or convention. Oh, to be so free! My freedom lies in the world within, while he enjoys it there and in the world without as well.
But wait. There is more! Oh, dare I write it? This gipsie has touched me in a way I have not known until now. I must describe it honestly, for I want to relive those feelings again and again. I must never forget. He was standing, leaning against the rock that has been his only shelter for these many days. I brought him water from the beck, and wood for his fire. He said nothing, but he watched me as I busied myself in his behalf. And then he called my name. Emilie! It sounds so different in his tongue. Different and delicious. Emilie, he called. I turned, and in his eyes I read a command. As if in a trance, I moved toward him, my gaze never leaving his. He held out his hand, and I placed mine in his. It was as if lightning struck me at his touch. My skin turned feverish and my brow began to throb. What was he going to do? Would he hurt me? Instead he pulled me gently toward him. I could smell the dried sweat on his skin—not an unpleasant odor, but a manly smell I am not used to. Looking into his face, I sensed he wanted to say something, but no words came. Instead he very slowly leaned forward and placed his lips upon mine.
I feel myself burning as I write this. His kiss has set my soul on fire. I never before succumbed to such temptation, and I should feel ashamed. But this is not the case. Instead I feel as if I am alive for the first time in my life. I thought I knew about the things that transpire between men and women, but I did not know about the feelings that accompany the act. Is this what is called love? Is this why Charlotte pines for Msgr. Heger? If it is so, I can no longer disdain her actions as regard to that gentleman. It would seem we may not be able to control those feelings that accompany such a state as this. Now I am truly afraid…
Selena’s hand shook as she opened the tattered envelope. Her earlier efforts at breaking the spell that seemed to have a stranglehold on her work had left her weak and drained, but she was not surprised that they hadn’t worked. She laughed at herself bitterly.
She scorned “Gypsy nonsense,” but she’d just acted like some kind of possessed sorceress trying to break a curse she didn’t even believe in. But she had to try everything, anything to get past this mental block, wherever it came from, and salvage her career. Curse or no curse, she must get on with other projects.
Turning the envelope upside down, she watched the contents flutter onto the low table that sat in front of the fireplace. Twenty-one bits of paper, each smaller than a silver pound coin, lay in front of her like so much innocuous confetti.
But Selena suspected they were far from harmless.
With resignation, she sat down and, with a large magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers, began to piece the confetti back together. Each piece was covered with tiny lettering, and she knew by heart where each one went.
Selena remembered vividly the day she’d torn the note to shreds. It was just more than a year ago when Matka had handed her this photocopy.
“’Tis time I passed this along,” she’d said without emotion. “I know y’ don’t believe in t’ curse, but y’ must read this. I have made y’ a copy. When I be gone, y’ may have the original, but only if y’ promise, as I promised my mother before me, not t’ destroy it.”
“I’ll promise no such thing,” Selena had replied tartly, crushing the copy into a ball. “This is just so much Gypsy rubbish, Gran, and you know it. It’s ruled the lives of lots of ignorant people, but it’s not going to rule mine!”
The old woman had only nodded. “I hope y’be right, daughter. But y’ must read it. ’Tis your unfortunate heritage, whether y’ accept it or not. Your lot was cast when your great-great-great-grandfather foreswore his Romany blood for a Gorgio woman, and by so doing, brought down a curse so strong it even caused his lover’s death.”
Selena had sighed deeply and sat down at the foot of Matka’s bed. “Even if that’s true, Gran, that was a long time ago. Don’t you think it’s time we give this all up? I mean, it has to stop somewhere.”
“Unfortunately, girl, tha’ can never be, not unless our line dies out.” She eyed Selena shrewdly. “Which i’twill, unless y’ have children.”
Selena picked at the bedclothes. “Sounds to me like a good reason not to. Who wants to bring a cursed child into the world?”
The old woman ignored her logi
c. “Y’ must hear the tale, Selena. In full.”
Thirty minutes later, still seated at her grandmother’s feet, Selena was so astounded she could hardly move. She had heard scraps of the story before, but she had no idea of the depth of the tale and the pain those lovers must have endured. Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks, not because she now believed in or feared the curse, but because the tale was immensely sad.
“Who was she, Gran?” Selena asked quietly at last.
“Nobody knows. Tha’ be the difficult part. By our ancestor’s decree, the curse could only be lifted if one o’ the girl’s family could grant forgiveness. But that is impossible, y’ see. And so the curse continues…”
Selena pulled herself together and slid off the bed. “No, not unless we believe in it. Which I don’t. But thanks for telling me the whole story.” She kissed her grandmother good-bye lightly, not wanting to reveal her own shaken emotions. “I have to go now.”
Later, back in her studio, Selena had taken the crumpled photocopy out of her purse and sat down by the fireplace, tempted to toss it unread into the embers and be done with it.
She wished now she had done just that. Instead she had read the tiny words, and in so doing, had seemingly transferred the message from the paper into her heart, where it had tormented her ever since. Perhaps her subconscious had known what she was in for, for after she’d read it, she had sat entranced, staring at the glowing coals and tearing the paper methodically into little pieces.
She’d left the tiny, odd-shaped scraps scattered on the table, but later that night she crawled off the sofa where she slept and went into the back room of the studio, drawn by an inexplicable urge to paint. She had begun the series then by picking up a single shard of the note which, by morning, was captured on canvas, alongside the other images that were to recur in different forms throughout all of her work for the next year.
Selena stretched. The late afternoon sun, wonderfully golden now that the clouds had dissipated, spilled through the north windows onto the table where she worked at piecing the puzzle together. At this time of year the sun would not set until almost half past ten, giving her plenty of daylight to pursue what she knew she must.
The pieces in place as best she could arrange them with their frayed, curling edges, Selena studied the letter as a whole for a long moment, feeling a deep sense of sadness envelope her. That poor, desperate woman, she thought. And that tragically tormented man.
Then she took the tweezers and removed the pieces she had already included on her canvases. There were only five remaining when she finished. She stared at them.
Five pieces left.
Only five.
And suddenly she knew the answer to her dilemma. She’d used the pieces of the letter to create a series. She had only to finish that series, painting these five remaining images onto canvas, to wrest herself from its possession.
Simple.
Logical.
If it worked.
Quickly, she selected one of the remaining bits of paper and replaced the rest in the envelope. It had to work!
She moved across the room to a window. Holding the slip of paper up to the light, she read:
In death my sh
never to hurt
forgiveness
is of you a
retributio
no hell he
the hell h
I will miss
With a racing pulse Selena went into her storage room and began selecting a canvas. Already the images were swirling in her brain.
It had to work…
Chapter 5
In a high-ceilinged room in one of the finer neighborhoods of Leeds, an old woman in an expensive dressing gown sat before a flickering fire. She got cold even in summer these days, it seemed.
Along the walls, mementos and photos of various younger versions of herself told the story of her life. Her husband. Her only daughter. Her meeting with the queen. Her visits with Winston Churchill. Her many diplomas and service awards. All hung in an orderly array. Hers had been a rich and stimulating life.
And it wasn’t over yet, she vowed with a mischievous grin.
With a steady hand she picked up the portable phone and pressed the numbers listed in the Oxford faculty directory. A woman’s voice answered after only one ring.
“Dr. Flynn? Eleanor Bates here. Brontë Society.”
“Ms. Bates!” Maggie was clearly surprised. “I hope you are well.”
“Yes, yes, very well, thank you. I’m so looking forward to your debate at the end of August. But that’s not what I’m calling about, dear. My daughter, Mrs. Hillary Durham, is hosting a soirée at Harrington House in a couple of weeks, and I thought it might be good for you to come and get acquainted with some of us Yorkshire folks. We’re keen on your Brontë work, and there will be a number of Society members there. Do tell me you will come…on the seventeenth.”
A slight pause. The sound of flipping pages. “I have my date book right here. Yes, I believe I can make it.”
“Oh, wonderful! And oh, by the way, I had a chance encounter on the train the other day. Ran into that Dr. Hightower you are debating. My, but he’s handsome! You are acquainted with him, I believe? I don’t suppose you could convince him to come along with you for the evening, could you?”
A longer hesitation, then, “I think it is…unlikely. From what I…understand…he’s not keen on formal affairs. But,” Maggie added, “I’ll ask him.”
“Please do, and if he declines, invite someone else. I’ll add your name and a guest to the invitation list. Look forward to seeing you there.”
The clock on the mantel ticked loudly in the silence left by the absence of her voice, and Eleanor Bates settled back against the comfortable cushions of her divan, a small smile playing on her ancient lips. Maggie Flynn and Alexander Hightower. Now there was a pair! Both brilliant and good-looking. Both Brontë scholars. Eleanor had never been able to resist an attempt at matchmaking, especially when such eligible and obviously compatible candidates came her way. Maybe with a little creative manipulation, she thought, she could orchestrate more than a debate between them. Picking up a crossword, Eleanor Bates wondered when she’d become such a shameless romantic.
The library at the Brontë Parsonage Museum was housed on the ground floor of the new wing, which was added after Patrick Brontë’s death. It was small, intimate, with room for only a few investigators to work at a time. Its size, however, was not indicative of its worth, for Alex discovered it held a literary cornucopia of bits and pieces of Brontëana he’d never seen before, much of which, to his surprise, came from the Brontë Society Transactions.
These treatises, submitted by scholars and members of the Society, provided him with a glimpse into the lives of the Brontës from a different, very British and sometimes possessive point of view. His estimation of Eleanor Bates and others like her who through the years had worked to preserve the Brontë heritage reached a new height.
Alex had been buried in the library for three days straight. The superbly professional and knowledgeable librarian had unearthed a mountain of materials for his study, and he had worked straight through each day, breaking only when the library closed for lunch.
He looked at his watch with bleary eyes. It was almost one o’clock. His stomach growled a Pavlovian response, and Alex closed the book in front of him.
“Think I’ll take a break this afternoon,” he said to the attractive librarian. He slipped into his windbreaker. “See you in the morning.”
The library door opened directly onto the reconstructed Parsonage kitchen. It had been in the kitchen that Emily and Charlotte and Anne had created much of their work, and Alex paused after shutting the door behind him, trying to visualize the young women at work in a room very much like this one.
The Parsonage itself had been carefully and lovingly restored and contained some of the Brontë’s furniture, including the couch on which Emily died. Above the library, in the new wing, items of Brontë
ana were attractively displayed.
Alex decided to take the long way out and mounted the steps that led into the display area. On the landing, he passed the tall, somber grandfather clock that had also been part of the Brontë household in Emily’s day, and he could almost see the Reverend Patrick Brontë stopping to wind it every night on his way up to bed.
He made his way through what had once been a bedroom and into the new wing, where he let his eyes roam with the pleasure of a hungry man at a feast over the personal effects of the Brontës displayed in the lighted cabinets. He was especially fascinated by the intriguing miniature books created by the Brontës as children. Some of the pages were scarcely wider than a ten-pence coin, just smaller than a quarter. How, he wondered, could they have inscribed such minuscule words using the rough quill pens that were the writing instruments of their day?
Closing his eyes, Alex could almost hear the squeals of laughter and the whoops of the young Brontës at play in their small “children’s study” upstairs. They were not a quiet bunch, at least as children. Nor could their childhood ever be described as conventional.
Brilliant and mature beyond their years, Charlotte, Branwell, Emily, and Anne learned their lessons from life and the books and magazines in their father’s library, and that of the Keighley Mechanics Institute. When other children were playing blind man’s bluff and chasing each other around the mulberry bush, the Brontë children’s games often consisted of reenactments of actual historical events, embellished by a rich and vivid well of imagination. Once, Emily, dressed up as Bonny Prince Charles, effected the royal’s escape by climbing out of her father’s bedroom window and down his prize cherry tree, tearing a limb off in the process.
Before they were much more than infants the Brontë children knew death intimately, losing first their mother and then their two older sisters. The four remaining siblings turned to each other for solace in the face of this crushing emotional devastation. Their father, although loving, was stern and aloof, as was their aunt Branwell, their mother’s spinster sister who, martyr-like, moved in with them to care for the children. Only Tabby, the old cook, showed them any kind of affection from an adult.