by Jill Jones
“I…I want that more than anything, Alex,” she murmured. “I’ve never felt like this toward anyone before.” Her breathing was ragged as she talked. “And I know I can trust you. It’s just that it’s all so strange. The way you came here. The paintings. The letter. What happened today on the moors. I haven’t told you the half of it.”
She looked up at him with troubled eyes. “I’m afraid, Alex,” she admitted at last. “I love you. I know it from the bottom of my heart. But I’m afraid the curse will…destroy us as it did my mother and father.” She attempted a small laugh, but it only emphasized her deep distress. “I know that sounds stupid, but—”
Alex drew her close to him once again. “Don’t be afraid, Selena. The curse is nothing unless you believe in it.”
“That’s what I thought, too, until…I couldn’t stop painting those images.”
“Maybe your subconscious was trying to tell you to deal with this once and for all. You know intellectually the curse doesn’t need to have power over you or anyone else. And yet, deep down, you still believe in it. Maybe your paintings were your way of dredging up the fears and bringing them to the light of day.” Alex had often used poetry the same way, long ago when his own dark doubts threatened to overpower his sanity.
Selena didn’t reply right away, and Alex knew she was considering what he’d said. He expected her to agree, but when she answered, he knew his psychological explanation had lost out to Gypsy tradition.
“Matka thinks you’re the one who can break the curse.” She looked up at him. “Can you?”
Alex led her to the sofa and drew her into his lap. He brushed the dark hair away from the delicate face, loving her beyond all being. How he wanted to take away the demons that haunted her! If only he knew how. He thought back to his visit with Matka.
“Your grandmother told me the only way the curse could be lifted was if the family Wd attained forgiveness from the family of the Gorgio woman who died.”
“And you think that woman was Emily Brontë?”
“Yes.”
He saw hope in her suddenly eager expression. A hope he had to dash with his next words. “But Emily died unmarried, as did her brother and sister, Branwell and Anne. Charlotte married and conceived a child, but died before it was born. Old Patrick Brontë outlived all of his children, and when he died, it was the end of their line.” He brushed her cheek with his fingers. “There is no family to grant forgiveness, Selena.”
“Oh, dear,” she said quietly, and Alex saw the dark impact of these words in her destitute expression. “Then there is no way for the curse to die. Unless I die, and there are no more descendants of the family Wd as well.”
Alex felt his heart break, and he bled for her pain. He had to clear his throat to speak. “I guess that’s one way to look at it,” he said, his voice husky. “Another way is to believe the curse died with the end of the Brontë family.”
“But what about my ancestors? My great-uncle? My…my own parents?”
“Do you really believe they were cursed, or could their problems be explained differently? Isn’t it possible they would have had the same troubles had they never known the curse existed?”
Selena frowned. “I’ve always believed that my mother and father suffered from alcoholism and hopelessness, and I’ve tried to deny the curse all of my life. But when those paintings started to control me, I had to pay attention, Alex. I had to! Even if my family’s problems could be explained away by psychology or something, I still believe the curse influenced their lives.”
“Then you do believe…”
Selena nodded ever so slightly. “I suppose I do.”
Alex swallowed. “Then I guess you have a choice.”
“What choice?”
“You can continue to believe in the curse, or you can believe in us.”
“It’s not that simple, Alex. You just don’t understand.”
Alex understood only that he wanted this woman and that he was not going to allow any curse, real or imagined, to stand in his way. He wasn’t sure how, but he would find a way to either break the spell, or convince Selena it didn’t exist.
At the moment, he would do his best to persuade her that he was a better bet.
Unable to control his desire for her any longer, he framed her face with his hand, raising it slightly. He saw no resistance in her eyes, only an igniting passion that fueled his own. He dropped his lips to hers, and he felt her body melt against him. Her lips parted to receive him, and hunger for her welled within his soul. A wild, dangerous, animal hunger. He teetered on the edge of control.
Forcing himself to slow down, he said in a low voice, uttered between short breaths, “I understand…what is important, Selena…I love you, with all my heart. Curse or not, I want you to be mine for all eternity. I’m willing to take that chance if you are.”
He saw her eyes were misty with tears. “My own Gorgio love,” she murmured before she returned his kiss with a fire that said what his heart wanted to hear.
Selena closed her eyes to the mauves and grays and wild Gypsy riders that hung on walls only a few feet away. She nestled in the strong arms that held her, protected her. Safe. With Alex, she felt safe. He would not hurt her. He would not leave her. There was no curse.
At least not for him.
And for her?
Take a chance. Take a chance.
His words echoed through her mind and reached deep into her heart. She wanted to take a chance. She felt Alex trace the back of his fingers along her jaw and down her neck. She wanted this man. His finger edged free the top button of her blouse.
She wanted…
Her tongue searched for a deeper taste of him, and she heard him groan and move beneath her.
He wanted…
Selena splayed her hand across his chest, then moved it down and away, giving him room.
Take a chance.
Alex released another button, and then another, and she made no move to stop him. Her heart pounded as she felt the intoxicating rush of passion filling her soul. His kisses were desperate and hungry, and she returned them with a fever she hadn’t known possible.
Take a chance.
He laid bare her soft breasts, revealing their tender beauty in the late golden sunshine. Her nipples, dark and erect, invited his fingertips to graze and his lips to explore, and she quivered beneath his touch. Arching her back, she felt fire in her belly when his hand moved downward, seeking the silken inner curve of her slender thigh, shedding the soft cotton skirt that once hid it from view. She lay naked before his eyes, which ravished her body even as his hands, large and strong, stroked every inch of her skin with abandonment.
Seeking, finding, private hidden places.
Lighting even greater fires, until she wanted to cry out in her delicious agony.
She didn’t know how it could be, but her desire for him seemed more than physical. It was a raw, demanding need that ripped through the source of her very being. She felt as if she must melt into him and become him. Desperately, she freed him from the loose shirt that remained between them and raked her fingers through the wiry wisps of dark hair that covered the taut, hard planes of muscle on his chest.
Selena felt him move beneath her to remove the last barrier to their intimacy, and with a boldness born of long-controlled passion at last unleashed, she placed her hand on him, exploring his masculine hardness beneath her feminine fingers. She heard him emit a low groan and felt his arms tighten around her, his kiss deepen as he moved against her.
Any lingering doubts Selena might have held dissolved as her love for Alex commanded expression. She lay back against the old sofa and closed her eyes, her heart pounding wildly as she awaited her lover. She could feel the heat from his body, the scratchy texture of his chest hair against her breasts. Her breath mingled with his for an instant and then seemed to cease altogether as they became one. Daylight was plunged into darkness, and she felt the sexual energy, ancient and sacred, the very force of life itself,
rising within her with each movement, each surge into oneness. She knew the dance. It was as old as time. A man, strong in his nakedness, enfolding woman, woman enveloping man, until at last, with a silent primal scream, all consciousness exploded into a thousand infinite stars.
Chapter 28
“Stop here,” Eleanor Bates directed her driver. “I’ll walk the rest of the way. You can wait for me in the pub on the corner.”
The well-dressed elderly woman waited for the man to open the door for her, then nodded, straightened her back, and walked off in the direction of the Sunnyside Nursing Home at the far end of the block.
Eleanor hated going into a nursing home. It reminded her of her own mortality, she supposed, and as the years passed, the age of the residents seemed to more closely equal her own. But today her visit was unavoidable, even though she did not know the woman she’d come to see.
“Matka Wood,” she said to the volunteer at the reception desk. “Could you please direct me to her room?”
“It’s 115-B, down the hall there and to your left at the drinking fountain. But I believe,” she looked at her watch, “that you’ll more likely find her by the fireplace in the Community Room, in there.” She pointed to a set of double doors, and Eleanor nodded.
“Thank you, my dear.” She looked down the hall toward Matka’s room, wishing she could accomplish her mission in privacy. Well, she thought, taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the semi-hospital smell of the place, might as well get it over with. Alex might be furious with her for interfering in his love life once again, but Eleanor thought that perhaps she could rectify her earlier error in attempting to set him up with Maggie Flynn.
Going through the heavy doors, Eleanor saw that the room was occupied by only two people. An old man sat on the window seat, looking out upon the gray morning. An old woman in a wheelchair read a newspaper by the fireplace, which glowed with a low flame. Even though it was August, the day was wet and cool, and Eleanor welcomed the warmth of the hearth.
“Mrs. Wood?” she queried, approaching the woman.
An ancient face appeared from behind the paper and peered up at Eleanor, who suddenly felt immensely younger. “Who be askin’?”
Eleanor smiled, recognizing mettle when she saw it. “My name is Bates. Eleanor Bates. I have recently become acquainted with your lovely granddaughter, Selena, through a mutual friend, Dr. Alexander Hightower.”
The old woman frowned, as if sorting through her memories until she came upon the right names. “Hightower.” Then the frown turned into a smile that reversed the direction of the myriad wrinkles in her face. “That nice young man.” She leaned forward and added conspiratorially, “I hope the girl has the good sense t’ keep holt o’ him. He’s a looker, in’t he?”
Eleanor pulled up a chair, liking the crone better every minute. “Yes, Dr. Hightower…Alex is quite handsome,” she agreed. “And Selena is in love with him, you know.”
“Ah, I thought maybe, but I didn’t know f’r sure. She can be stubborn, that’n.”
Eleanor cleared her throat. “Well, that’s, what I have come to see you about,” she said, hoping for Alex’s sake Selena’s grandmother would accept what she had come to offer. “Alex has told me about the…curse, Mrs. Wood.”
“Matka. Nobody calls me Mrs. Wood. I wouldn’t know t’ answer.”
“Matka, then. He says Selena is still not sure she will say yes to his marriage proposal, because she feels this ancient curse might…well, as he put it, make her ‘unlucky in love.’”
The words sounded almost ludicrous as they rolled off Eleanor’s tongue, but she was never one to laugh at another’s idiom.
Matka shook her head slowly from side to side. “I’twas as I feared,” she murmured. “She told me tha’ Alex had proven who wrote the letter, but tha’ there be no family left t’ grant forgiveness.”
“Technically, that is true, Matka. But I have come as something of a proxy, because I believe the Brontës have quite a large family, of which I am a member.”
Matka’s head jerked up. “What y’ be sayin’?”
“I am saying that there is a large group of us who feel a kinship with the Brontë family. We call ourselves the Brontë Society, and for over one hundred years we have worked to protect and preserve the Brontë name and heritage. Many of us, like myself, feel as if there might be a little Brontë blood flowing in our veins, although I am sure that is just wishful thinking.”
The older woman’s eyes searched Eleanor’s face. “Go on.”
Eleanor reached into her purse and drew out the letter. “Alex gave me this into safekeeping until the debate, day after tomorrow. We have worked closely together to examine it, and from the chemical makeup of the paper and ink, we’re certain it was written around the time Emily Brontë wrote Wuthering Heights. Alex is an expert on Emily Brontë’s penmanship, and with the consensus of other experts in the field, he firmly believes it was she who wrote it.” She opened the letter and gazed once again at the almost unbelievable message it revealed.
“If it is forgiveness you believe will end the curse,” Eleanor said, looking up into Matka’s eyes, “I am here on behalf of the Brontë Society to offer it, although I know that Emily Brontë would never have wished such a thing onto anyone.”
Matka’s eyes grew moist. “Twasn’t the girl who brought on the curse,” she said. “I’twas Mikel himself, and believin’ he was responsible for the girl’s death, Mikel named forgiveness by her family as the only possible release from the curse.” She stared into the fire for a long time, a distant look in her eyes.
“Yes. I think i’twill work,” she said at last, bringing her gaze back to Eleanor. “Let me see the letter again.”
Reluctantly, Eleanor gave the letter back to its rightful owner, who clutched it between gnarled fingers. She closed her eyes, as if listening to a voice Eleanor could not hear. When she opened them again, there was a look of deep peace and gratitude on her face.
“It is done.”
The auditorium was filled to overflowing, and latecomers had to stand in the rear of the university’s small theater. Word had leaked out over the past few weeks, largely with Eleanor Bates’s help, that some sensational new material concerning Emily Brontë was going to be revealed at tonight’s debate, and there were more than twice the number of people than had originally been expected.
Alex and Maggie were seated at opposite sides of the stage with a podium between them.
A podium, and palpable tension.
Alex ran his hand through his thick, dark hair. It was warm in the room, and the starched shirt and navy blazer he wore with a tie threatened to suffocate him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back. Outside, the sky had turned an ominous color, and the warm summer day threatened to end in a nasty storm.
Sort of like my career, Alex thought grimly, doubting seriously that he would now be appointed to the vacant Chair in English Literature at Leeds University he’d applied for, even with the clout of Eleanor Bates behind him.
Eleanor Bates and about a dozen other members of the Brontë Society had arrived early and were sitting in the front row, looking at him expectantly. Alex knew that Eleanor had delighted in tantalizing her friends with the “secret” she’d been in on, letting them know something big was about to be revealed without telling them what.
She’d been a good friend and a trustworthy colleague. He’d even accepted her generous offer to stay in her home after the debate for a “celebration” toast without a long drive back to Haworth after.
He hated that he would be unable to deliver the victory she expected.
He should have told her before tonight what had happened, but he himself was still in a state of shock. In fact, he could hardly think. Everything was out the window. He should have called the debate off instead of trying to wing it. Nobody, with perhaps the exception of Maggie Flynn, was going to be happy with his performance tonight.
Outside, heavy thunder rumbled.
&n
bsp; Glancing over the heads of the audience, Alex saw Selena enter the auditorium pushing her grandmother’s wheelchair, and his heart lurched. She was sensational in the red dress she’d picked out especially for the occasion. At least there would be someone in his court tonight, and no matter what else happened, Alex thought with a melancholy smile, he had come out the winner with the dark-eyed beauty. He’d find something to do, anything, to remain here with her in the moorland country they both loved so well.
Selena’s grandmother, dressed in black and wearing a large strand of pearls, would never know how appropriate her funereal attire was. Matka gave him a broad, semi-toothless smile, and he found it hard to be angry with her.
What was done was done.
The moderator began the proceedings, introducing each debater in formal, eloquent style. Alex, as the affirmative side, spoke first.
“Resolved, that Emily Jane Brontë, author of Wuthering Heights and numerous poems, committed suicide through willful neglect.”
Alex looked out across the sea of faces in the audience, wishing he was anywhere else but behind the podium at the moment.
“I am convinced of the truth of this statement based upon extensive studies of the work of this Victorian writer,” he said unenthusiastically. He knew it was the truth, but that truth would now have to be anchored only by old arguments.
Which he made, point by point, quote by quote, carefully reasoning each through to a logical conclusion. At the end of his ten minute presentation, the audience was visibly restless, wondering when the big news was going to be forthcoming.
Maggie, statuesque in an immaculately tailored cream-colored suit with black trim, approached the podium. Before beginning her own arguments, she shot Alex a “what the hell is going on here” look.
Alex looked away. Although Maggie remained diametrically opposed to him on the issue, he knew she could not overlook the impact of the letter, and he figured she’d planned her counterproposal accordingly.
But he hadn’t introduced the letter.