Emily's Secret

by Jill Jones

  Selena was afraid she’d opened Pandora’s box. She didn’t really want to know what had gone wrong between Alex and his ex-wife.

  She didn’t, and she did.

  In a curious way, it made her feel like less of an oddity for avoiding relationships. She didn’t speak, and in a moment Alex went on. It was as if he wanted to let her know what a bad guy he was, like he was putting up a warning sign for her.

  “I’m a dedicated workaholic. I put my career ahead of everything. My wife didn’t find much satisfaction in our marriage, and looking back, I can’t say as I blame her. I didn’t give her the attention she needed. Deserved. And she…found someone else who would.”

  In spite of his attempt at remaining unemotional, Selena could tell he was still fighting deep pain. She withdrew her foray into his personal life. She’d learned what she needed to know. She wished there was something she could say or do to ease his pain, but nothing she thought of seemed appropriate, so she didn’t try, and they drove in silence the remaining few miles to the lower end of the village of Haworth.

  Alex stopped for a red light and looked across at her, and when he spoke, there was no hint of his earlier distress. “Want to stop for a bite now?”

  Selena glanced at her watch. Five-fifteen. The late June sun was still high above the moors. She thought of her recent trip to the market and the unusual stock of supplies she had purchased in her moment of madness. Like red wine. Pâté de fois gras. Three of her favorite cheeses. Some pears and apples.

  Then she thought of the options for dining out locally, and all of them seemed to include dark, crowded pubs and heavy, rich food. She ran her hands through her hair, pulling it away from her neck and then letting it fall again, daring herself and then quickly taking her own challenge before she could change her mind.

  “I’m hungry,” she began, her heart pounding, “but I have an idea. I really detest pub food. I…bought a few things recently that would…make a wonderful picnic. It’s such a lovely afternoon. Would you like to stop by my place, pack a hamper, and climb to the top of the moor?”

  There! She’d done it. Her pulse drummed in her ears. Never had she so boldly approached a man before. What would he think? What would he say? Apprehension turned her mouth to cotton, and suddenly she wished she could take her words back. He probably had other things to do this evening. After all, she’d already consumed most of his day with her grandmother’s party. Maybe he hated picnics. Or had another date. She was certain he’d say no. She hoped he’d say no. Maybe he’d save her from her own insanity.

  But when she turned her face to him, she saw that grin that turned her insides to butter.

  “Sure. Why not?” he said. And then he shifted into gear and turned the car toward Bridgeton Lane.

  September 14, 1846

  Why ask to know the date—the clime?

  More than mere words they cannot be:

  Men knelt to God and worshipped crime,

  And crushed the helpless even as we.

  But, they had learnt, from length of strife

  Of civil war and anarchy,

  To laugh at death and look on life

  With somewhat lighter sympathy.

  —Emily Brontë

  September 20, 1846

  Charlotte and Papa remain in Manchester, where he is recovering from cataract surgery which Dr. Wilson assures us was successful It will be a happy miracle indeed if his eyesight is restored. My sister writes that she has begun another novel as she sits in Papa’s darkened room next to his bed. “Jane Eyre” she calls it. Like Anne’s Agnes Grey, Jane is a governess. It is an ordinary idea, but the only calling Charlotte finds realistic for an impoverished young woman, and a fate we ourselves narrowly escaped.

  I seldom walk these days upon the moors, for the memories of the golden summer hours I spent there with Mikel haunt me and I return melancholy and filled with that unnamed desire. The dreams have returned as well, and there is a fire in my soul stronger than that of last winter, since now I believe that Mikel is my own true friend. Will I see him again? I do not know, for he is of gipsie ways and promised me nothing but his earnest attempt to return next summer.

  October 8, 1846

  Papa and Charlotte have returned and the miracle has happened. Papa can see to read and get about on his own once again. It is at once a blessing and a curse, for now he can also see the pitiful creature Branwell has become. We came near to disaster only yesterday on Branii’s account. Anne thought she smelled smoke and ran into his room to find him unconscious on the bed with the bedclothes aflame. She screamed and I followed up the stairs. I am larger and stronger than Anne, who was rendered quite witless by it all. I dragged Branii off the bed and dumped his drunken carcass in a corner, then managed to put out the fire. Then I put Branwell, still unconscious, into my own bed, and I slept on the sofa in the dining room. Papa has such a terror of fire, I pleaded with Anne and Charlotte not to let him know what had happened, but the odor of burned bedclothes told him for us. He has now proclaimed that Branwell must sleep in his room, and I fear for both their lives. Branwell is insane, quite mad, and makes dire threats against us all. Oh what, what will come of this? Perhaps he shall murder us all in our sleep, and I will not have to wonder whether I will see Mikel again.

  Eleanor Bates was taking tea in front of her favorite daytime television program when the phone rang.

  “Drat,” she said, punching the mute button on the remote control. She picked up the portable phone, wondering who would be calling her at this time. She’d educated most of her friends that she didn’t want to be disturbed during this particular time every day.

  “Yes? Eleanor Bates here.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bates. My name is Tom Perkins. Perkins Galleries, London. In case you don’t remember me, I was a guest at your daughter’s recent soirée. The one who misplaced his date for the evening, if you will recall.”

  Of course she recalled. She also recalled that Tom Perkins’s date was the lovely young woman Dr. Alex Hightower seemed so taken with. “Yes, yes, certainly,” she said, keeping her tone neutral, although an inner sentinel sent up a warning flag. “What can I do for you, Mr. Perkins?”

  “First, let me thank you for your assistance that evening. I’m afraid I overreacted terribly when I couldn’t find Selena. She’s…well, she can be rather absent-minded, if you know what I mean. Artists often are, and I was concerned that she might have forgotten her obligation, uh, I mean, that she had a group waiting to discuss her work with her.”

  Intuitively, Eleanor hadn’t liked the man the first time she’d met him, and his gratingly patronizing tone on the phone only reinforced her first impression. “She seemed to be in good hands when we met up with her,” Eleanor said pointedly.

  Tom Perkins cleared his throat. “Actually, that is the reason for my call. I understand from your daughter that Alexander Hightower is a friend of yours.”

  So that’s what he’s up to, Eleanor sniffed. Wants to check out his competition. Well, she would help him as little as she could. “I would call Dr. Hightower more of an acquaintance than friend. We have only recently met. Why?”

  “Apparently Selena, my, uh, client, is under the impression that Dr. Hightower is a personal representative of an American collector who is interested in her work. Let me see, I wrote the name here somewhere…yes, a Mr. Henry H. Bonnell. I would very much like to get in touch with Mr. Bonnell, as Selena’s agent. Her work is becoming quite in demand, and I wouldn’t want Mr. Bonnell to miss an opportunity to invest in a most promising young artist.”

  Stunned, Eleanor sank into a damask wing chair that was fortunately close by. Bonnell! She was speechless. On the terrace at Harrington House she’d taken Selena’s introduction of Alex as someone’s personal representative as a joke, one that Alex himself had brushed aside lightly. But now it would seem as if Selena’s agent was taking it very seriously. But how could that be? Obviously, the man had no idea who Henry H. Bonnell was.

  Her i
ntuition warned her not to tip him off, at least not at the moment. Not until she had a chance to get to the bottom of this. “I wouldn’t know anything about all that, I’m afraid. You’ll have to take it up with Dr. Hightower.”

  There was a protracted silence, then Tom Perkins replied, “I would, but I have no idea how to get in touch with him. Selena says he is staying in Haworth. Would you, uh, happen to have his address or phone number?”

  “I see Dr. Hightower from time to time,” Eleanor replied noncommittally, still reeling from the bombshell dropped apparently unwittingly by this noxious little man. “I could tell him you are looking for him.”

  “I see.”

  Eleanor detected disappointment in his tone. “I’m afraid I cannot be of more assistance to you, Mr. Perkins, and I am rather tied up at the moment.”

  “Before we ring off, Mrs. Bates, would you be so kind as to take my number? In case you see Hightower, perhaps you could pass it along?”

  “Certainly.” Eleanor wrote down the number.

  “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Bates.”

  “I can’t have been of much help. And by the way, it’s Ms. Bates. With an M-S.” She heard the twit at the other end of the line making apologetic noises, which she ignored as if she was hard of hearing. “Good day, sir,” she said, and hung up in his ear.

  Eleanor Bates would do nothing to harm Alexander Hightower, because she’d taken a liking to him. Perhaps in her own elderly way she’d even fallen a little in love with him. He was so handsome, after all, and charming. And so dedicated to the Brontës.

  Or so it seemed.

  But this phone call ignited serious concerns about the man’s integrity. What was he up to, parading as an art agent? And claiming to represent Henry Bonnell, for God’s sake. It was preposterous.

  Picking up the remote, she switched the TV on again, noting with irritation the program was almost over. She couldn’t concentrate on it anyway, agitated as she was over Tom Perkins’s phone call, so she turned it off for good and sat staring out of her window into the sunny rose garden below.

  What’s your game, Alexander Hightower?

  Eleanor decided to find out. Bonnell was an important, almost sainted figure to the Brontë Society. And Hightower was recognized as a renegade, academically speaking. No matter how much she liked him personally, she couldn’t stand by like a witless teenager and let anything destroy the credibility of either the Society or the Bonnell Collection.

  She picked up the phone and called the Parsonage Library and shortly had Alex’s phone number in hand. Alex deserved the opportunity to explain his curious use of the Bonnell name and to know that Tom Perkins, at least, didn’t realize it was a joke.

  Eleanor was certain Dr. Hightower would set things straight.

  The phone rang four times, then was picked up by an answering machine. As loath as Eleanor Bates was to leave a message on one of the damnable contraptions, she concluded that the reason was important enough to overcome her personal dislike of the technology.

  “Dr. Hightower, this is Eleanor Bates. I must talk to you at your earliest possible convenience. It concerns the art collection of Henry H. Bonnell…”

  Chapter 17

  January 2, 1847

  This is the coldest winter I can remember. I cannot seem to get warm, even in the kitchen where I find every excuse to spend my hours. Outside, the darkness never seems to end, and within my own world, I suffer from a dark foreboding that I will never again see my beloved. Oh, it hurts to think of him now, camped in some wild place, freezing in the snow. How do the gipsies stay warm? It is visions such as these that remove the sting from my lack of freedom. I envy Mikel in some ways, and yet I do not wish at the moment to exchange places…

  March 5, 1847

  The earth is showing early signs of spring, although it will be some while before the weather is warm enough to walk on the moors. I am weary of winter, and I long to stretch my housebound spirit with a good run with Keeper up the hills and down. Even though I know Mikel could not possibly arrive before summer is fully upon us, I doubt not that my footsteps, when finally I break loose of this infernal prison, will lead directly to the beck at the back ravine. Until then, I pass these dreary hours in a new writing endeavor. I have begun another novel, although our efforts of last winter have yet to see the light of day. This work springs from a far different source than did “Wuthering Heights.” I do not feel the same energy for it, perhaps because this time I have no demons to drive away.

  May 13, 1847

  The world is shed of winter at last, and my spirit soars once again with the winds of spring. I have only the rudiments of my novel on paper, and I find surprisingly that I simply do not care. There is no evidence that “Wuthering Heights” or “The Professor” or “Agnes Grey” have made any friends on their rounds of London’s publishers. Our poems have been published almost one year, and we have sold but two copies. How easy it would be to become discouraged, but my days are now preoccupied with other thoughts. When will he arrive?

  June 15, 1847

  I expected Mikel before now, and as each day passes, I fret for his return. He made no promises when he said farewell, only that if he did come near this area, he would leave a message under the rock. Charlotte has invited Ellen to visit in July, now that Branwell has tamed his temper somewhat. I hesitate to think what our dear Ellen will think when she sees his much diminished appearance, but she has been duly warned. Ellen is no fool, and I fear that I might give myself away should Mikel be within my sphere, so perhaps it is as well that he not come during her visit.

  July 8, 1847

  I have done the outrageous, and yet I am pleased to have done so. Ellen insisted that we go to Bradford to do some shopping, and although it is not my normal pastime, I decided to go along. We each selected cloth for new dresses. Charlotte and Anne chose dark-colored silks, while I, in a fit of delirium, have brought home a white fabric with purple lightning and thunder imprinted upon it. I will sew it into a dress that I hope Mikel will like. Ellen looked at me oddly, as if she was desirous of questioning my new taste in clothing, but she said nothing. We also played at hairdressing late yesterday, and I pulled my dark locks up and fastened them haphazardly with a Spanish comb. Ellen said I looked like a gipsie! If only she knew…

  July 18, 1847

  The unimaginable has happened Both “Wuthering Heights” and “Agnes Grey.” have found a publisher. But not poor Charlotte’s “Professor.” It will continue on to the next publisher on her list, whilst Anne’s work and mine will soon be published by T. C. Newby. We must pay him for the honor, not exactly the way I had envisioned earning a living as a writer, but after 250 copies are sold, he will refund our fifty pounds. My heart goes out to Charlotte, for it was her idea to sell the novels, and hers was not accepted. Perhaps she will have better luck in the future. It is difficult to keep our secret, that we are novelists, with Ellen in the house. I fear she has suspicions, for she was in the dining room yesterday when the postman rang the bell with this news, and the three of us could scarcely contain our excitement.

  July 21, 1847

  Ellen knows of our careers, I am certain of it. Today upon the moors, we witnessed a strange and haunting sight. Three suns shone down upon us in rainbow-hued light. I was standing apart from the others, awed by the parhelion, when Ellen suddenly commented that we were the three suns—Charlotte, Anne, and I—and that our suns were on the rise. Charlotte only scoffed and denied Ellen’s statement as nonsense, but I have a strange notion that she may be right. Perhaps I want it so because I have begun to lose hope of seeing Mikel again. As each day passes, the chances diminish that I will look into those flashing dark eyes or feel the pleasure rush through me when he rewards me with a rare but winsome smile. Each night as I lay upon my cot, I pray for his return, but if he comes not this year, I will take heart knowing that our time together on the moors last summer meant much to him, as my friend. The dreams, however, continue to haunt me. They frighten me, for
they leave me wanting more than friendship from this wild creature I know and love.

  Alex turned into Bridgeton Lane, parked the Jaguar in the driveway and decided to put the top up once again, even though the weather appeared as if it would hold for a while. It had been a splendid day, in more ways than one. But his sense of elation at the prospect of Selena’s picnic was tempered by the nagging trepidation that she might throw him out on his ass when he came clean about his little prevarication concerning Bonnell. It was what he deserved. But not what he wanted. Well, the die is cast, Alex thought, following Selena and a yapping, tail-wagging Domino up the steps and into the kitchen of the old house. Whatever the outcome, at least he’d have to suffer no more of Emily’s “anticipation.”

  Inside, his concerns vanished as he surveyed his surroundings. Ancient board flooring creaked beneath his feet, and the faint musty smell of decay met his nostrils. Cracks clawed their way across the panes in the two large windows of the room that faced the front of the house, and faded wallpaper hung in peeling scales from ceiling to floor. A bare lightbulb at the end of a long black cord strung through a hole in the ceiling swung slightly in the draft that seeped through the cracked windows.

  He had seen squalor in the poorer sections of New Orleans when as a boy he’d gone with his mother, a home health nurse, to care for an indigent person. This place was only one notch up on the scale. His face must have reflected his dismay, because he heard an apology in Selena’s voice, if not her words.

  “This is going to be a great place one day,” she said with forced brightness. “I plan to gut it and renovate the entire thing. I might turn the downstairs into a gallery.” She shrugged and pulled a large picnic hamper from a shelf above a squatting, half-sized refrigerator. “All it takes is money.”

  “How long have you lived here?” Alex wondered how she could stand to inhabit such a place.