by Jill Jones
She found it almost immediately upon passing into the display area on the second floor in the new wing.
There, safely ensconced behind glass, were what appeared to be miniature books, written in a hand that Selena recognized instantly.
“My God,” she whispered, staring. And then the pieces of the puzzle of the curse began to fall into place. The Gorgio woman. The writing in the letter. Her vision on the moors. This house. Em-ilie. Could it have been? Could that Gorgio woman have been Emily Brontë?
It seemed preposterous. Who would ever dare claim such a thing? Then Selena’s pulse quickened. Alex had told her he was working in the museum. Doing what? No wonder he’d been curious about the letter. The handwriting was virtually identical to that in the miniature books in front of her. Did he suspect that the letter Matka had so innocently revealed to him was written by Emily Brontë? Selena had a sudden sickening feeling that he did. And that he wanted that letter. And that he was willing to seduce her to get it.
And the part of her that wanted to fall in love with him wept in bitter acknowledgment of the truth.
Tearing her gaze away from the little books and the handwriting that had given her the ugly answer to her questions about Alex, Selena looked for the exit. She hurried down the back stairway and was almost out the door when a name jumped out at her from one of the historical exhibits.
Bonnell.
Henry H. Bonnell.
Her eyes widened as she read the history of the collection of manuscripts, letters, drawings, samplers, and other items of Brontëana donated by the philanthropist. “After Bonnell’s death in 1926, his widow oversaw arrangements for the shipping of the collection from America to Haworth…”
Selena stared, even more stunned than she had been when looking at the handwriting upstairs. Was there no end to this man’s audacity! She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Henry Bonnell was no art collector. He was a dead man! Alex must want that letter badly, she thought, furious, to make up such a stupid story.
Yes, he wanted the letter.
And Matka had almost given it to him!
The one you love holds the key. Give him the letter…
Not on your life, Gran.
Hot tears filled her eyes, blinding her. She never saw the man coming up the steps toward her until she ran squarely into his rock-solid body.
Chapter 26
Alex had searched all day for Selena, never thinking to look in his own backyard. What was she doing here at the museum? And why was she crying? He held her, steadying her, then felt her stiffen when she recognized him.
She pulled away from him. “Sold any paintings to Bonnell lately, Alex?” she snapped, wiping away her tears. “Where does he hang them, in his crypt?” Then, with a sardonic glare, she pushed past him and stormed up the path away from the Parsonage.
Oh, shit, he thought, and started after her. “Selena, wait, I can explain.”
“Leave me alone, Alex. I don’t know who you are or what you want from me, but whatever it is, you can’t have it.”
He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Will you calm down and let me explain?”
“No!”
“Look, I’m sorry about that little story. I should have set it straight before now, but—”
Selena wheeled around to face him, her cheeks burning bright pink. “You know, you have a lot of nerve, parading around pretending to be somebody you’re not, invading my privacy, harassing my grandmother. I’ve a good mind to call the authorities. It’s the letter you’re after, isn’t it? Who the hell are you, anyway?”
The afternoon sun bore down on them as they stood in the sandy lane, but he was oblivious to all but the shining black eyes boring into him, demanding answers. Anger poured from her in torrents, and he withstood the blast, knowing he deserved every bit of it.
“I am who I said I was, Alexander Hightower,” he began, trying to sound calm in the face of disaster. Why couldn’t he seem to hold to his determination not to get emotionally involved with women like Selena? He always seemed to find a way to screw it up. And he could see that history was about to repeat itself. “I’m an historian,” he continued, “like I told you. And yes,” he said after a short pause, “I think the letter your grandmother showed me might have incredible historical significance.”
“That’s all you’ve wanted all along,” she charged reproachfully, her eyes flashing. “That’s what it was all about, wasn’t it…the made-up story about Bonnell, you bringing flowers to Gran. The…the night in the rainstorm—” At that she broke off, and he saw the tears glistening in her eyes once again.
“You’re wrong, Selena,” he said, groping for some way to make her understand. He touched her shoulder, but she jerked away.
“Am I? Then why the stupid masquerade?” Her voice was high-pitched, almost hysterical.
Alex felt his temper rise. “Well, damn it, I’m trying to tell you. Why don’t you shut up and listen?”
She looked as startled as if he’d slapped her. He’d been rude, but at least he finally had her attention. Alex ran his hand through his hair, wondering how this had gotten so blown out of proportion. “I didn’t mean to lie,” he said simply, “and I’m sorry. And no,” he added, taking a chance, “the letter isn’t what it was all about.”
She sniffed and gulped down a sob. “Do you care to expand on that?”
“Do you care to listen?”
She shrugged and nodded.
Alex took her hand, encouraged. “Like I said, I’m an historian,” he began again. “My field of specialization is Victorian English literature, especially the work of the Brontës.” He described how he’d noticed the similarity between the handwriting in her paintings and that of Emily Brontë. “At first, it was just something that struck my fancy,” he told her, “but when I was able to get a closer look at the message on the painting here in Haworth, something clicked, and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. When I found out your studio was nearby, I knew I had to try to get a look at the rest of the paintings.”
“But why the charade? What was the point?”
He slowed to a halt and put one hand on her shoulder. With the other, he tipped her chin up. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “Would you have let me in if I’d walked up to your place in the rain that day and said, ‘Hey, you don’t know me, but I need to take a look at your paintings because I think the handwriting looks like Emily Brontë’s?’”
She hesitated. “No, I guess not.”
“I didn’t think so either.”
“You could have written me, explaining what you wanted.”
“Would you have answered?”
Slowly, she shook her head, again acknowledging he was right. “Normally, I don’t let anybody into my studio. That’s why I work through Tom. I…I’m used to being alone.”
I’d like to change that, lady, Alex thought, but doubted if he could do much about it at this point. Better just to get the truth out, and with luck, find out about the damned letter. After that…well…
Selena looked up at him, and he saw that she was still deeply troubled. Why was she making such a big deal out of this?
“What are you working on at the museum?” she asked.
Alex was surprised by her change in direction. “I’m here for the summer researching the possibility that one of the Brontë sisters might have committed suicide…” He saw her eyes widen.
“Suicide?” Selena rubbed her arms as if she were cold.
“Yes,” he replied, watching her closely. “You see, I think it’s entirely possible that Emily Brontë took her own life.”
Selena frowned. “Don’t the history books tell you how she died?”
“They tell how she died, but I think they stop short of revealing the full story.” Alex explained the circumstances surrounding the author’s death, and his own theory that she took her life through willful neglect. “I didn’t think too much about the words in your paintings other than I found a fascinating similarity in the handwriting,” he
continued, “until yesterday morning after the storm. I should have waited and asked your permission to study them, but you weren’t there when I saw something in one of the paintings that set my imagination on fire. It was the word ‘Keeper.’”
“Keeper?”
“Keeper was the name of Emily Brontë’s dog. I saw ‘Keeper’ in the painting, along with some other familiar-sounding words, and I began to wonder if maybe your letter might convey a message relating to the Brontës.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me about it?”
He hesitated. “If you’ll recall, I did,” he replied slowly, “and you sort of, well, lost it. Like you didn’t want to talk about those images.”
Selena looked up at him, and her expression told him she remembered that he had asked her, and she’d told him to get the hell out. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have answered you anyway.” Her voice was soft, and he felt pain behind her words. He continued as they began to walk down the path.
“After I left your place, I went to the photo lab where I’d had those pictures enlarged, and between the few that were readable, the words I copied at your place, and those I got from the painting in Haworth, I pieced together a message that…that contained a line from one of Emily’s poems.
“I wanted to come to you with what I’d found,” he went on, “but you’d made it clear that I was persona non grata around you. Then I remembered that your grandmother had asked me to come back to see her. She said she wanted to tell me about the letter, and she asked me to come alone.” He paused. “And so I did.”
He could tell that rather than easing the tension between them, his words were somehow causing Selena even more distress.
“Do you think Emily Brontë wrote that letter?” she asked.
“Unless you wrote it, or know who did, I think there’s a good chance it could have been Emily. It would have to be examined by experts, of course, but I am myself something of an expert, and I’d be willing to put money down to prove its authenticity.” His gaze penetrated the depths of her eyes. “I have a feeling that your grandmother’s letter may have been the last thing Emily Brontë ever wrote,” he said, probing for her response, hoping she’d tell him what was in the letter. “Maybe even something of a suicide note.”
Selena glanced at him but offered nothing. They had almost reached the Land Rover, which hunkered beneath an isolated tree. Suddenly, Selena started to run toward the car. “Domino! Oh, damn! I forgot!”
But Domino was nowhere in sight.
“He must have jumped out,” Selena agonized. In tomboy manner, she placed two fingers between her teeth and produced a shrill whistle. “That’ll bring him running.”
But Domino must have had other things on his mind. She whistled and called again while Alex walked on up the lane alone, his eyes searching the sea of waving grass for some sign of the black and white dog. As he called out to the dog, he considered his conversation with Selena. He knew she thought that all he was interested in was the letter, and he hadn’t taken the opportunity to tell her any different, even though it was clear to him by this time that he’d lost his heart to her. Now that she had calmed down, and her anger seemed to have abated, he could risk telling her how he felt about her, but he doubted if she wanted to hear it. Their future together, he surmised, would be limited to any contact they might have in the search for the truth about Emily Brontë’s death. Just as well, he tried to convince himself, but a too-familiar ache settled around his heart.
Half an hour passed, and Alex could see Selena visibly sinking into despair. “Maybe he’s found his way back to your place,” he suggested, hoping to ease the forlorn look from her face.
Selena turned to him and smiled wanly. “Perhaps you’re right. He’s obviously nowhere around here.” She looked at her watch. “I need to get back anyway. I’m supposed to have dinner with my agent this evening.”
Alex scowled. “Yeah. I guess you know he’s cornered me into that meeting, too. I think Mr. Perkins has some suspicions about the content of the letter. He said he wanted to tell me about that aspect of the paintings, to pique the interest of my, uh, erstwhile client Bonnell.” He shot her a self-deprecating grin and was relieved when she smiled back.
“Guess you’ll have to come clean,” she said, and her tone indicated that she might enjoy watching his discomfort when he did so.
Alex shrugged. “Paybacks are a bitch.”
They stood close to one another beside the car. Selena’s dark hair was tossed by the warm wind, and her face was smudged, but Alex had never seen her look more beautiful. The defenses that were supposed to protect him from intimate involvement continued to fail him.
He lowered his head and kissed her lips gently. “Let me know if you find Domino,” he said. “See you at dinner tonight.”
Selena could no longer restrain the tears that had threatened to spill over as she and Alex had searched for her dog. Large teardrops fell across her cheeks and blurred her vision, forcing her to drive slowly. She wiped them with the back of her hand and sniffed. Damn it, Domino, she cursed silently, hoping that her pet would be waiting for her at their doorstep.
But it wasn’t the dog that brought the tears to the surface. It was the man. Alexander Hightower. The man—and the frustration and confusion he seemed to engender in her. Why couldn’t she seem to think clearly about him?
Gran had said he loved her, but he’d never mentioned any such thing, even though the times she’d allowed herself to get close to him, he’d acted tender and protective. Or was that just another ruse to get at the letter?
She herself had admitted that she wanted to love Alex, and a very large part of her knew that maybe she already did. But how could she love someone she wasn’t sure she could trust? It wasn’t that ridiculous story he’d made up about Bonnell that gave rise to her misgivings about the handsome American. It was his motive behind it.
His explanations had been plausible enough, and Selena knew he was right in surmising that she would not have let him in had he been straight with her. She should not have let him in regardless. Why did she?
She thought about his claim that the letter might have been Emily Brontë’s suicide note. After what she’d envisioned in the crystal ball and seen at the museum, she knew intuitively he was right. If it could be proven that the letter had actually been written by the famous author, it would be priceless.
And that’s what Alex was after, Selena decided with a heavy heart.
A priceless relic. Nothing more.
She turned into Bridgeton Lane, thinking of the letter she now carried in her handbag. The letter had held a cruel curse over her family for generations. Was her heart to be its next victim?
The one you love holds the key. Give him the letter…
Matka’s words echoed once again in her mind. Under other circumstances, she would have gladly turned it over to him, or anyone else who could help her rid the family of its hateful presence. But she doubted sincerely that Alex could break the spell of the curse, and she’d be damned if she’d just give it to him like some lovesick schoolgirl, especially after the rather underhanded way he’d gone about trying to obtain it. No. If it was as valuable as she now suspected it to be, she would consider all the options before making up her mind what to do.
Her thoughts shifted to the upcoming dinner party, which she now faced with dread. She wondered what Tom’s real motive was for making the long drive from London.
“Guess I’m about to find out,” she said out loud, frowning at the sight of two cars parked in her driveway.
No Domino romped to greet her, but Selena scarcely noticed. “Who’s here?” she called out, alarmed at this curious intrusion.
Tom Perkins stuck his head out of the upstairs window. “Up here, love. Thanks for leaving the place open. It’s bloody hot this afternoon.”
Selena stared at him with unmasked hostility, but Tom seemed oblivious to her anger. “Come up. We’ve just discovered the most remarkable thing. Perhaps you can expl
ain it”
We?
Selena didn’t recall leaving her studio unlocked, but she supposed it was possible. With a sigh and a quick glance up the hillside in case Domino was lingering on his Lassie-come-home journey, she went inside. She was hot, tired, emotionally spent, and had just lost her dog. She was in no mood to confront Tom Perkins or any of his cronies he’d dragged along.
The crony sat next to Tom on her sofa and didn’t stand to greet her. The woman’s red hair fell to her padded shoulders, a gleaming helmet. Selena had seen those coldly intelligent green eyes before, that milky white skin. Her memory rewound until she could play back the recollection, and she discovered Alex Hightower was also in the movie.
“What are you doing here?” Selena raged at Tom. “Nobody gave you permission to come into my studio.” Her face was blazing, and it wasn’t from the sun’s heat.
Tom stood and held out his hands toward her. “Now, now, calm down, Selena. We didn’t mean to intrude. Like I said, the door was open. I thought you might have had to run an errand and left it open for me. You were expecting me, after all.”
Selena glanced at the woman, who seemed to be enjoying the scene from an icy distance. “Who is she? You know I don’t let strangers in here.”
Tom turned to Maggie, who at last condescended to rise for her introduction.
“This is Dr. Maggie Flynn,” Tom said, a note of inexplicable triumph in his voice.
Neither woman extended a hand to the other.
Selena stared, trying to recall what Alex had said about this woman. A colleague, he’d called her. Was she, too, a scholar? A Brontë scholar? She hadn’t believed him then, but now that she knew who might have written the letter, she thought it entirely possible.
“Dr. Flynn. What brings you to Stanbury?” she finally managed.
Maggie forced a smile. “Your work, my dear.” Her tone was disdainful, patronizing. “I find it quite…fascinating.”
Selena looked at Tom, then her gaze fell to the table-top in front of the couch. To her horror, she saw the tiny pieces of the photocopied letter scattered about.