Emily's Secret

by Jill Jones

  “I still am a Gypsy, young man, ’n proud o’t.”

  “I didn’t mean…well, your days when you traveled in your caravan.”

  “She’s usin’ Gypsy images in her paintin’s?” Matka was clearly surprised. “Why, she don’t want naught t’do with bein’ Gypsy.”

  From Selena’s earlier reactions about the subject, Alex wasn’t surprised at Matka’s comment. “Well, there are black stallions and campfires and organ grinders and monkeys and red roses…” His voice trailed off as he saw the wistful look on the old woman’s face.”…and a piece of a letter in each painting,” he finished.

  At that, Matka looked up at him sharply. “A piece o’ the letter? What d’y’mean?”

  “It’s what attracted my attention in the first place.” Alex leaned forward, eager to hear the old woman’s comment on the letter. “In each of her paintings, there is a small piece of paper with writing on it. I asked her about it, and she said it was just something she made up.”

  Alex’s pulse beat a little harder when he saw Matka’s reaction to what he was telling her. She was shaking her head side to side, slowly at first and then more adamantly. He was about to ask her if she knew something more about the letter when the door opened and Selena came in.

  “Are you two about finished with your romantic interlude?” she asked. “It’s getting late, and we need to be on our way.”

  Matka didn’t look at Selena. Her gaze was somewhere far away. Her head was still moving slightly from side to side, and Alex was afraid he might have caused her to have some kind of seizure.

  “We were just finishing our conversation,” he said hesitantly, chagrined that Matka hadn’t been able to comment on the letter fragments, for he knew she had something more to say. Alex stood up, leaned over to the old woman and took her hand.

  “We’ll come back soon,” he said, and his voice seemed to bring her back to the present.

  She reached a twisted hand to his jacket and pulled his ear close to her lips.

  “Y’ must come back. But come alone. There’s more tha’ y’must know.”

  June 10, 1846

  My heart is torn between the joy I feel over Mikel’s return and the torment I experience each day over Branwell We learned recently of the death of his former employer, Mr. Robinson, not something anyone should rejoice over, but it fired hope anew within Branwell’s breast that he could be reunited with the one he loves. Knowing that joy myself, I could only wish it were true for Branii. It is not to be, however. He has received word from Lydia Robinson that her husband added a codicil to his will stating that if she had any further communication with Branwell, she would forfeit any claim to his fortune. Seeing no hope of support from Branwell, the woman has no choice but to forbid him to court her again. He is mad from this turn of events, even more so than before, if that is possible. I don’t know how long I will have the courage to endure as his sole friend in this household. His demands are many and sometimes he becomes too deranged to be left alone. I have my own needs now, too, and although I would never begrudge him my love, I am beginning to do so of my time.

  June 24, 1846

  We have all three finished our novels, and Charlotte has bundled them off to whatever fate awaits them. As I reread my own work, now that my “Heathcliff’” has returned, I worry that I have created in him such a dark character. Mikel deserves better. But it is too late, for the work is done, for better or for worse.

  I have just returned from the moors, and although it is late, the sun is still high. In spite of Branwell’s fits and Papa’s increasing blindness, my days are happy, for my heart is full knowing that Mikel is nearby. I have learned not to fear him, nor myself, for he has made no improper overtures, and I, for the most part, have learned to control my own desires. As much as I find happiness in the company of my new friend, I must always remember the pain of last winter. I must never leave myself open to such pain again. Control of the will allows me to spend parts of my days with him without fear I will lose my senses, and our enterprise together is safe and sufficient for two friends. He is an eager and intelligent student, and although I have always loathed the role of teacher, he is a special and beloved pupil. He has already mastered the alphabet and has rudimentary skills with words. His handwriting is childlike, but that is to be expected. My own is little better.

  We spend some time in this endeavor, and then we walk on the moors and he tells me about places strange and foreign. I am learning gipsie folk tales he says they tell by firelight or beneath the light of the moon. What a carefree life it must be to live as a gipsie, and yet I would not trade places with him. My home is here, in the Parsonage, and although I have often pined for more freedom in the outside world, if it were offered, I would likely not accept. It would be too frightening, and the idea of such enormous freedom serves to keep my thoughts straight as concern Mikel. We come from separate worlds. There is no hope for a future life together, and so I must not indulge in those fantasies I once held. I must maintain control, and distance. I must let him be my friend, and nothing more.

  July 18, 1846

  I sometimes feel as if I am in a maelstrom of terrible things going on around me, and yet I remain sublime. My sisters wonder at my calm demeanor, whilst Branwell rages and threatens murder and suicide and Papa is so blind we must be his eyes these days. I have much to be thankful for, however, for my life suddenly has more meaning than ever before. Our poems have been praised by the Critic and Athenaeum, and although I still retain little hope of their providing any financial solvency for our efforts, they may perhaps lay a solid foundation should our novels be well-received. It is not the poems that give me such peace of mind, however. It is my student on the moors. He has progressed quickly, and we have invented a game, since he must come and go at odd hours as the chase of the ponies leads him. We have a special place, the message rock, we call it, where we leave written correspondence to one another. His notes, of course, I do not save, lest they be discovered by prying eyes, and he promises he burns mine in the campfire when he returns. Part of the magic of our world together is that it is a secret between us. I am reminded of when I was a young girl and Charlotte and I created our secret bed plays. This is very different, of course, and far more delicious!

  August 18, 1846

  Tomorrow Charlotte travels with Papa to Manchester to see if the cataracts which are causing his blindness are sufficiently ripe for surgery. I pray they be so, for I need his eyesight restored, for other than myself, Papa is the only one who seems to be able to cope with Branwell, and I am growing weary of carrying the burden alone.

  Tonight I said farewell as well to Mikel, who leaves on the morrow for his winter in Wales. He has collected many handsome ponies this season. I have seen them myself. I am happy for him, but knowing I will not see him again until next year grieves my already heavy heart. I longed for him to kiss me again, as he did last summer, but he has honored my wish, my insistence, that our encounters be within the realm of friendship, nothing more. But my hand trembles, I must admit it, recalling how he held it tonight, as if he never would let it go. He looked into my eyes as the firelight burned into the encroaching darkness, and his eyes said what his lips would not. I am in love with this man, I know it, but it is impossible for our love to exist in this world. Perhaps like Heathcliff and Cathy, we will be reunited in that greater world beyond, but until then, I can only hope and pray for his return again in the springtime.

  Chapter 16

  Alex and Selena said good-bye to Matka and made their way down the polished hallways to the exit. He opened the heavy glass door for Selena, placing his hand in the small of her back as he did so. But unlike her reaction when Tom Perkins had made the same gesture, Selena found it protective rather than controlling, and she made no move to escape his touch.

  She knew the next time she talked to Gran in private, she would get an earful about the marriage thing again, but somehow it didn’t matter. She wasn’t interested in marrying Alex Hightower, but
his attendance at the party today was the best present she could have given her grandmother.

  Outside, the afternoon had shed its clouds and turned brilliant and warm. Selena shook her head, letting her hair blow freely in the warm breeze. Then she turned to Alex with a sunny smile.

  “Thank you for doing this.”

  “What’s there to thank me for? I would have missed a great event if I hadn’t come along. Want to put the top down for the ride home?”

  “Sure. Might as well get some sun while we can.”

  Alex dropped the convertible top and fastened it securely, then opened the car door for Selena. She watched him in the rearview mirror as he walked behind the car, taking off his lightweight blazer and exposing the substantial breadth of his shoulders beneath the pale yellow fabric of his shirt. He dropped the jacket on the backseat and got in beside her, and she caught the pleasant fragrance of aftershave mingled with his own masculine scent. Her heart picked up a beat in spite of her determination to keep a level head when she was around Alexander Hightower.

  She waited until he’d settled his tall frame behind the steering wheel, then said tentatively, “You know Matka will have all kinds of designs on you.”

  He started the engine and grinned boyishly at her. “What kinds of designs? She’s not into voodoo or anything, is she?”

  “Gypsies don’t do voodoo, Alex,” she said coldly.

  “Sorry. That was meant as a joke.” Neither spoke as he backed the car out of the space and maneuvered it into the heavy traffic. “You want to stop for lunch, or are you anxious to get back?” he asked.

  “I’m not really hungry right now. I snitched a piece of cake when you took Matka to her room. Why don’t we get back to Keighley or Stanbury and stop for tea? My treat.”

  Alex glanced at his watch. “By then, it might be time for something more substantial than tea. How about dinner? My treat.”

  “We’ll argue about it when we get there.”

  Selena was anxious that her grandmother had not led Alex to any false expectations. “I hope Matka didn’t jump to the wrong conclusions,” she said cautiously.

  “What conclusions would be the wrong ones?”

  “Well, it’s just that she’s always trying to convince me that I ought to find a man, settle down, you know what I mean…”

  “And you’re not interested, I take it.”

  Selena didn’t answer for a long moment. “No. I’m not interested.”

  “Why not, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Selena thought only an American would come up with such a reply. Whether she minded or not, he had asked. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and began to twist a lock of hair.

  “I’ve never had a very high opinion of the state of marriage,” she said at last. “I guess it’s because my parents were so miserable in their own relationship.”

  “That doesn’t mean you would automatically be miserable in one of your own.”

  Selena thought instantly of the curse. She had told herself for as long as she could remember that she didn’t believe in it. But it was always there, just under the surface, whenever she thought of getting involved in a relationship that might lead to marriage.

  “No, I suppose not,” she answered carefully, not liking the direction this was leading. “But my…my whole family, for generations, has…well, as Matka would put it, has been, quote, unlucky in love.” How ridiculous that sounded in her ears, but she heard herself reveal her own beliefs in her next statement. “I guess I’ve just never wanted to run the risk.”

  “Unlucky in love? What does that mean?”

  Selena attempted to hide her bitterness behind levity. “It’s the Gypsy way of saying that I come from a long line of dysfunctional human beings.”

  She saw Alex shoot her a quick glance, but he didn’t reply. He only took her hand in his, and they drove on in silence. Selena was grateful that he’d finally stopped asking questions, and she liked the feel of his large, strong hands around hers. She recalled her wish the night of the party at Harrington House to meet a man who wasn’t like all the rest.

  Was that man sitting next to her right now?

  She knew so little about him. She had been unable to answer Tom Perkins’s questions about him when she’d spoken to him by phone, and Tom had intimated that the American might be after more than just her artwork. Considering Tom’s own lechery, she had only laughed.

  But today she wasn’t laughing.

  After this afternoon, Selena believed Alexander Hightower’s interest in her extended beyond her artwork. The question was, how far? And how far did she want it to go?

  Selena felt the wind rushing through her hair and saw the brilliant sunshine reflecting on the lush summer leaves as they sped through the tranquil countryside. For a brief electric moment she let herself conceive the inconceivable. What if she allowed herself to fall in love with Alex?

  The terror inherent in such an idea brought her back to her senses. She didn’t love him, because she wouldn’t allow herself to. Perhaps that was the curse in action after all, but it was her best defense against ending up miserable and destructive like her parents. Something dark and terrible crawled across her memory and then was gone before she could grasp it, like a fleeting dream. But suddenly she was filled with feelings of shame and dread.

  She eased her hand from Alex’s grasp. She should break this off now, before it went any further. She shouldn’t give Alex any sign of encouragement if his interest did extend beyond a business relationship.

  But perversely, she found she wanted just the opposite. There was something about him that had captured her imagination, if not her heart, and suddenly she felt an overwhelming urge to learn all about this man who threatened everything she had so carefully laid out in her life.

  “What about your family?” she asked abruptly, surprising herself by the intensity in her voice. “It seems the questions have been pretty one-sided today.”

  They were at a busy intersection, and Alex didn’t answer right away. Surely he’d heard her question. Selena thought she caught a glimpse of distress on his handsome features, and she wondered why he seemed so reticent to talk about himself. Was he hiding something? She pressed on. “Well, turnabout’s fair play, isn’t it?”

  Alex maneuvered the sports car skillfully around a traffic circle, then gave her one of those sexy smiles that sent her heart into overdrive. For the first time she noted golden flecks in his deep gray eyes. “Yes. I suppose it is,” he said. “What would you like to know?”

  Selena decided it was best not to get too personal. “Tell me what it’s like in America. Is it so much different from here?”

  He laughed and ran his hands through his thick, dark hair. “No, it’s not that much different. We drive on the other side of the road. Use different money. But I’m afraid that our world has become pretty homogenized, for better or worse.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for instance, the last night I was staying at the Black Bull, the young couple who manage the place wanted a pizza after they closed the doors. Who did they call? Pizza Hut, for God’s sake. It seems almost sacrilegious that in Emily’s very backyard, an American franchise is delivering pizzas.”

  “Emily? Who’s Emily?”

  Alex swerved into the right-hand lane, almost colliding with an oncoming car. Swearing under his breath, he regained control. “Sorry,” he said after a moment. “Like I said, we Americans are used to driving on different sides of the roadway.” She saw him focusing on the highway, trying to steady himself, but she guessed what he was hiding.

  There was another woman in Alex Hightower’s life.

  That cold, dreadful feeling returned, and Selena regretted having entertained any thoughts about entering into a relationship with him. And she was deeply embarrassed that she had so easily fallen into his arms on the terrace at Harrington House. Why had it never occurred to her to ask the same question of him he had of her? Was he married? She’d never even considered
it.

  But it hadn’t mattered to her.

  Until today.

  And then his next words were so surprising, they threw her completely off balance.

  “Emily is Emily Brontë,” he said casually. “The writer. You grew up around here. You must know a lot about the Brontës.”

  Selena blinked at his most unexpected reply. Here she was tiptoeing terrified into his personal life, and he wanted to talk about Emily Brontë? She found herself inexplicably irritated. Still, it kept them on neutral ground, so she answered evenly, “Not really. I know the Parsonage is up in Haworth, and as a schoolgirl I went there on field trips. But I never really paid much attention. They’ve always been sort of like, well, neighbors who live nearby but you never visit.” She looked at him. “Why? Does your work have something to do with Emily Brontë?”

  She saw him open his mouth to speak, then close it again. He thought for a few moments, then said, “Henry Bonnell donated a lot of priceless Brontë works to the Parsonage Museum in Haworth. I’ve been working there for the past several weeks, and I guess Emily and her sisters and brother have become sort of like, well, like family to me.”

  Selena wanted to ask about Bonnell’s interest in her work, but she’d headed her line of questioning down another track, and she was determined to follow it through.

  “Are you married, Alex?”

  She saw a deep furrow form between his heavy brows, and his expression grew dark. “No. I’m not married,” he replied, then, with an obvious effort, he expanded. “I used to be. My wife divorced me almost three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Selena said, ready to drop the subject. It obviously wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. But surprisingly, he continued.

  “I was sorry too, for a long time.” He paused and studied the traffic, seeking, Selena thought, detachment. Then he added, “I guess I still am. The fact of the matter is that I was a lousy husband.”