Emily's Secret

by Jill Jones

  Their house, although adequate, was drafty and cold. Their meals were uninteresting and uninviting.

  But one day, the Young Men came into their lives, changing them forever.

  Returning from a convention of clergy in Leeds, Patrick Brontë brought gifts for his children, including a set of twelve wooden soldiers which, although intended for Branwell, captured the fancy of them all. Generously, Branwell shared with his sisters, and the toy soldiers became the Young Men. Later they were appointed to be the Duke of Wellington, Napoleon, Captain Edward Parry, Captain John Ross, and their loyal troops.

  Using their not-infantile knowledge of the world derived from their reading of current newspapers and magazines, and stirring it up with the drama created by their favorite authors, including Milton, Bunyan, Scott, Coleridge, and especially Lord Byron, the four became the “Chief Genii” and conjured up fantasy worlds in which it never got cold and no one ever died.

  Or if they did, they were instantly “made alive again” by the Genii, to wit, Tallii, Branii, Emmii, and Annii. Playacting, they traveled to far distant lands, fought wars, built empires, and in general escaped from Haworth.

  The little magazines in front of Alex were part of that escape. Three years after the Young Men came alive in their imaginations, Charlotte and Branwell, who were older, began recording the history of their fictitious Glass Town Confederacy in the tiny books. They were supposedly modeled on Blackwood’s magazine, one of the children’s favorites, which published tales of adventure, book reviews, and political commentary. Not exactly the nursery rhymes and fairy tales other children of their ages read.

  Alex gazed at the little magazines for a long while. The handwriting was so tiny it was barely legible. He knew that had served a purpose for the children as well. Not only did the size of the books make them easy to conceal, the tiny print was difficult for adult eyes to read.

  And secrecy was of utmost importance to the children. It was their only line of defense against adult intrusion, enabling them to safeguard their fantasies from prying grown-up eyes.

  Glass Town later became Angria. Still later, Emily and Anne broke away and created Gondal. But by whatever name, the magical imaginary kingdoms created by the Brontë children set the stage for many other aspects of their lives—their writing, their storytelling abilities, and their penchant for escapism.

  Charlotte, Branwell, and Anne eventually outgrew most of their childhood preoccupations with their fantasy worlds, but Emily never did. At least not according to history. Nor did she change her style of handwriting, except when teachers demanded. Then she proved she could write in a graceful cursive. Samples remained in the Parsonage Library from the time she was in the Pensionnat Heger in Brussels. But once away from the eyes of exacting schoolmasters, Emily reverted to the tiny, cramped, secretive handwriting she had used as a child.

  Alex forced himself out of his reverie and made his way down the back stairs and out the door. On the way he passed the priceless collection of Brontëana that had been donated to the museum by an American collector, Henry H. Bonnell. Interesting, he thought, that it was an American who restored much of the Brontës’ work to the museum.

  Now it was up to him to dig through it all to find new information that might support his suicide theory.

  Regardless of what he found, however, or the outcome of the debate, Alex knew his summer in Haworth would prove invaluable to his career. Here, the three sisters and their brother were taking on new dimensions. They were becoming more than just literary figures to him. They were like real people, old friends, and being in their surroundings was providing him with insight into their lives he could never have acquired from books studied in a far distant land.

  July 3, 1845

  Anne and I returned from York yesterday, and today Charlotte is off to visit Ellen at Hathersage. I am on fire to return to the moors, and yet I must bide my time. I do not want to appear overly eager to see my tormentor once again. He must have known when I took my leave of him last that my knees were weak, and I do not want him to think he can take advantage of my momentary delirium. But the truth is I have been unable to think of anything else since I left him. When I close my eyes, I see his dark visage looming there. I hear him call my name. I taste his kiss once again. It was almost humanly impossible not to speak of him to Anne on our journey, but I still dare not confide in anyone! I only survived these few days because I cast my longing onto the Gondals. And what adventures they had! Juliet and Ronald and the rest were never so alive as they made their escape from the palaces of instruction and went on to fight the Republicans! Anne and I played at Gondal almost incessantly while we were gone, and I remember little of York. Why should I care about a city that is just another pile of stones when my great adventure lies on the moor? Oh, my very soul aches to see his face again. I have never met a spirit so free. Would that I could leave behind this prison that is my life and follow him on the wings of the wind!

  Heeding a second reminder from his stomach that he’d gone to work with no breakfast, Alex made his way to a nearby pub, where he indulged in what the locals called a “giant Yorkshire.” The famous Yorkshire pudding resembled not at all the so-called “pudding” his mother had made from a package of Jell-O mix. It was, instead, a baked pastry, a hybrid that fell somewhere between a yeast roll and a biscuit. This one was as big as his plate, filled with savory beef stew, of which he consumed every bite.

  He did so without guilt, knowing that after taking care of one small piece of business in the village, he planned to strike out across the moors to Top Withens. It was almost seven miles round-trip to the ruins of the farmhouse purported to be Emily’s location for Wuthering Heights. He was a little out of shape, not having kept up with his usual workout regimen since he’d arrived in England, and he figured he would burn the Yorkshire, and hopefully a few additional calories, on the hike.

  But first Alex made his way down the steep cobblestones of Main Street, seeking the address of a bed-and-breakfast that had been recommended by one of the staff at the Parsonage Museum as possible extended lodgings.

  Although he liked the Black Bull, Alex was ready to find quieter quarters. Apparently, time stood still in Haworth, and in some respects little had changed since the days when Branwell hung out at the Bull. Although the place had been enlarged, the floor carpeted, and, to the horror of some of the local historical purists, video games installed, the Bull remained a popular watering hole for locals as well as tourists.

  Alex personally thought Branwell would have taken immediately to the video games, seeking as he did any diversion that would take his mind off his own shortcomings. Whatever the history buffs thought, customers flocked to the pub each night, and the sounds of their revelries made sleep impossible until well after midnight.

  As he walked he glanced into the windows of the shops that were shouldered against one another like giant stair steps down the steep hill. The bakery. The gift shop. The souvenir shop. A small art gallery. Alex froze, his gaze riveted on the painting displayed under a spotlight in the window. A painting he recognized instantly.

  The background was the wash of gray and mauve that he’d seen in the gallery in London. The images were the same, yet different. Horses galloped across the mists, a red rose opened to reveal a white-hot flame, and the monkey was only a tiny figure seated on the shoulder of an old man in rags.

  Alex’s heartbeat quickened. Where was the scrap of the note? He jerked open the door of the gallery and went straight for the painting.

  “C’n I help y’, sir?” The large woman behind the counter looked up, startled.

  “Yes, actually,” he said. “Could I please have a closer look at this painting?”

  “Cert’nly,” she said, removing her bulk from the stool where she was perched and bringing it on slow, flat feet to the front of the shop. She turned the painting to face Alex. “It’s a strange one, ‘n’t it?”

  Alex murmured his agreement. He spotted what he was looking for and
leaned over, peering closely at the letter. In this painting it was revealed beneath the hooves of one of the horses. The writing on it was so tiny he would have to come back with a magnifying glass to discern the content.

  “Who painted this?”

  “She’s a woman artist, lives nearby. Name’s Selena.”

  Alex stood up abruptly. “Nearby? Where?”

  The woman, figuring she had a customer for a painting she’d never thought she could sell, was more than accommodating. “She left me her card when she put that work on consignment,” she said, going back to her desk. “I know I’ve got it here somewhere. She’s a strange little bird,” she continued as she fumbled through a cluttered drawer. “Real private like. Her grandmum was friends with my mum. Told her fortune. Mum’d never make an important decision without consultin’ old Matka.”

  At last she retrieved the card out of the disarray. “There’s no phone number on’t. Says here she’s on Bridgeton Lane, over Stanbury way.” She squinted, thinking. “Seems I remember she’s livin’ in one of ’em old farmhouses, up on t’ far side of Haworth Moor, past Ponden Hall. Y’ know wherit’s at?”

  “I can find it,” Alex replied, his eyes never leaving the painting. That writing. That writing. His mind flashed back to the miniature books at the museum.

  Finally he drew away and turned to find the shopkeeper staring at him expectantly. “Uh, what is the price on this?” he asked.

  “She wants five hundr’t pounds, plus our commission, which ’ud bring it t’ six hundr’t.”

  Alex translated that into American dollars and figured immediately it was not feasible to purchase the painting, which he didn’t really want anyway. All he wanted was the opportunity to decipher the words on the scrap of paper painted there. At that price it would be a very expensive pastime.

  “Well, thanks very much,” he said, then indicated with a nod Selena’s card, which the woman still held in her hand. “Could I have that?”

  The woman looked at it, hesitated, then shrugged her shoulders and handed it to him.

  Alex slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. “Thanks,” he said again, and left before she had a chance to attempt to offer him a better price on the painting.

  Back in the street, Alex inhaled deeply of the moisture-laden air. What was it about those crazy paintings that seemed to punch his buttons? Was it the handwriting? It did indeed resemble Emily’s childish scratchings. That was part of it, he felt sure. But there was something else.

  Something that had to do with blue-black hair and dark, exotic eyes.

  July 5, 1845

  I could contain my eagerness no longer, and so today I escaped from Anne and made my way to the back ravine, only to find Mikel asleep beneath the noontime sun. I did not awaken him, but sat on a rock and watched him in his slumber. Just the sight of his handsome face was enough to unleash those feelings that are so new (and delicious!) to me. I wondered what he dreamt. Was it of me? Do I dare let such thoughts enter my head? It strangely excited me to look upon him when he wasn’t aware of my presence. I could study the length of his body without embarrassment, and I did so, feeling all the while that indescribable yearning building deep inside until I was almost in pain. I wondered what it would be like if I lay down beside him and he encircled me in those strong arms. What would happen if I did? My head swims to think of it even now. He awoke and caught me staring at him, and my face blazed with shame. But he only laughed, as if the idea that I had been spying on him pleased him greatly. We talked together for the longest we ever have, and it was all I could manage to keep my attention on what I was saying. I told him about our trip and about the Gondals. I’ve never told anyone about the Gondals, but I let slip a mention of them, and he was eager to hear all about their adventures. The afternoon slipped away, and at last I had to leave. I did not touch him today, nor did he touch me, and even though I know it is for the best, my very soul cries out for his kiss again. What, oh, what is this madness?

  Chapter 6

  The image of Selena’s raven hair and obsidian eyes stayed with Alex as, a short while after leaving the gallery, he turned his feet down the well-beaten path that led away from the Parsonage in the direction of the Brontë Falls and, farther on, to Top Withens. The day was warm and bright, with no hint of the mauve-gray mist he’d observed from the train window and which, he now believed, provided the background for Selena’s paintings.

  He wondered where the rest of the imagery came from. Certainly not from anything he’d seen around here so far. But then, he was still very much a newcomer. Maybe there was a circus or carnival in the area at the time she’d created that particular work, he thought.

  The scrap of letter fluttered across his mind as well, but he let it float on out of his consciousness, for at that moment he crested a hill and what he saw took his breath away.

  Below him the moors spread out and rolled away into forever, an infinite sea of tall golden grasses billowing in the westerly wind. The breeze bore the call of a bird he couldn’t name and the occasional bleat of a sheep grazing on the rough pastureland. Above him fluffy white clouds played chase against an azure sky.

  He’d seen this place before, he thought with a smile of deep satisfaction. At least in his mind, when Emily’s character, the spirited young Cathy, described it in Wuthering Heights as being her dream of Paradise.

  …rocking in a rustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and bright, white clouds flitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but throstles, and blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side, and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by, great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze…

  Alex walked on, whistling softly, feeling ever more connected to the writer of this sylvan reflection. Although much of her work was gloomy and haunting, she had these brilliant moments when she seemed so alive, she virtually sparkled in her imagery.

  He suddenly felt more alive than he had in years, and his spirits surged upward, stretching, seeking the outer limits of this limitless landscape. No wonder Emily escaped to the moors at every opportunity, he thought, especially on days like today. Here, she found the freedom to roam, or write, as she wished, rather than the drudgery of housekeeping, the needlework she hated, Aunt Branwell’s stern eye.

  Here she left behind the stench of Haworth’s putrid, disease-infested streets, embracing instead fresh, clean-scented air and healthy sunshine. He filled his lungs with the sweet fragrance of summer, much as she must have done when she and her large yellow mastiff, Keeper, trounced along this same path when Queen Victoria was still a child.

  Alex reached the tumbling waters of the beck that had been labeled “Brontë Falls” and sat for a moment on the “Brontë Bridge.” Above his head was a signpost, carved in both English and Japanese, pointing to the “Brontë Way.” He frowned, feeling that Emily’s private territory had become terribly commercialized.

  Still, it was remarkable how many people traveled to Haworth to pay their respects to Emily and her siblings, or, as he had, to try to capture some of the romance and spirit of this talented family.

  He stood and looked up the hill that rose starkly in front of him. In the distance he could see a tiny black smudge against the golden slope, and knew he still had a long walk ahead of him. He resumed his trek, letting his mind roam as he made his way up the steep incline. He was deep in the heart of Emily’s realm, and he tried to resonate with her spirit, as best he understood it.

  Many adjectives had been used to describe Emily Brontë. Free-spirited. Strong-willed. Talented. Intelligent.

  But rarely “suicidal.”

  He alone seemed to have come up with that one. What could she have been thinking when she deliberately refused medical help that early wintertime so long ago? Did she just not like doctors? Had she misjudged the seriousness of her illness? Hadn’t it occurred to her that unless she got well, she might not be able ever to return to this wondrous piece of geography t
hat she loved so fiercely?

  For half an hour more these and other troublesome thoughts and questions tumbled about Alex’s mind while sharp air filled his lungs during the strenuous climb. By the time he reached the crest of the hill, he was slightly light-headed from the increased oxygen in his system, and when he looked up, he thought he was hallucinating to see a man on a bicycle speeding toward him down the steep incline. The cyclist rode with his head down, intent on avoiding bumps in the path, and he looked up scarcely in time to prevent a collision with the astounded hiker. He braked and skidded, sending a shower of small stones down the hillside.

  “Sorry, old chap,” the cyclist said, recovering from the swerve and dismounting the bicycle. He was lean, spare as the thin machine he rode.

  Alex stared, still thinking this person was some sort of bizarre apparition. Surely no one in his right mind would try to ride a bicycle in this terrain. “Do you ride this way often?” he asked incredulously.

  The biker laughed. “Every day. Live down there in Stanbury. I’m in training for the Tour de France.” He looked out over the vista in front of him. “Quite a view, i’n’t it?” he said. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I never tire of ’t.”

  “All your life?” Alex considered that a moment, then added, “I don’t suppose you know a woman named Selena. I understand she’s an artist. Lives somewhere nearby.”

  The thin young man furrowed his brow. “Selena, eh? I went to school wi’ a girl named Selena. Wha’s the last name?”

  Alex shrugged. “I don’t know. Her paintings are signed with only one name.”

  “The girl I knew was Selena Wood. A bit of a mystery to me she was. I didn’t know her well. They said she was a Gypsy. I don’t know if tha’s true, but I know she was real standoffish. Didn’t have much to do wi’ us regular kids.”