Romance By The Book

by Jo Victor

  “I wouldn’t put it quite so baldly, but I’m convinced their relationship had a significant erotic component.”

  “Conviction is one thing, but you mentioned evidence.” He fixed Alex with a gimlet eye.

  She smiled, not the least bit intimidated. “I meant textual evidence, of course. After all, if you consider the implications of, for example, Dare I with impious hand profane—but of course I principally have in mind the early revisions, especially in the third draft, the one that was discovered on the back of the Highgate Christmas pudding recipe in 1942—”

  “Stop, stop!” Ian held up his hands in mock horror as if to ward off a blow. “I surrender. I should know better than to start a debate with an Artemisia scholar. We’d be at it for hours, and I’m getting too old to stay up so late.”

  Alex subsided, chuckling, mostly because he was absolutely right. “But in all seriousness, Ian, just what do you believe about Artemisia’s work and her relationship with Lady Melissa?” A terrible thought occurred to her. “Good God, you’re not part of the Fringe Faction, are you?” All her humor vanished.

  “What, those ignoramuses who think that just because she wore men’s clothes she was actually a man? Hardly!”

  Alex let herself breathe again. “Well, even in this day and age there are still people who are convinced only men can be great writers, and—”

  Ian held up his hand before she could really work up a head of steam. Just as well, since she had been known to spend entire conversations on the topic.

  “Really, Alexandra, I should hope you know me better than that. As for Artemisia, I believe she was a damn good poet, and an interesting, independent woman, and that’s more than enough for me. It’s my strict policy to keep clear of all the academic argy-bargy, for fear it might be catching. Clearly, you are more than ready for the responsibilities of the Brockenbridge.”

  “I certainly hope so. I don’t mind admitting I’m a bit apprehensive. I feel like I’ve been doing nothing but eat, sleep, and breathe Artemisia for the last five years or more. I’m not sure there’s anything left to say about her that hasn’t already been said, by me or someone else, over and over. I just hope I can fulfill the terms of the grant and present the Foundation with a dissertation that represents a”—she flicked her fingers in air quotes—“worthy new work of scholarship at the end of my stay. I’d hate to have people say that they made a mistake taking a chance on another American as Scholar in Residence, or that the most recent scholar was also the worst.”

  “Nonsense! Clearly you have the expertise, and the passion. Dawson House will provide the inspiration. You just need to give yourself a chance to settle in and get your bearings. And as for being the worst of the scholars, surely you can at least do better than Heaving Bosoms.”

  Alex laughed heartily, and Ian joined her. Heaving Bosoms was the nickname bestowed by a reviewer on Heaven’s Blessings, the actual title having been taken from one of Artemisia’s more controversial sentiments, Desire not Heaven’s blessings if they banish earthly joys. The book had been the astonishing offering of the 1931 Brockenbridge Scholar—the first American to win the award—at the conclusion of his fellowship period.

  He claimed that Artemisia had dictated the entire manuscript to him directly from the other side. Furthermore, he had asserted that Heaven’s Blessings provided proof positive of the existence of a carnal connection between Artemisia and Lady Melissa Dawson, her muse and patron. Thus, he said, he had met the requirements of the Prandall Prize.

  His purported proof consisted of numerous sexually explicit scenes between the two women, for which the book was roundly condemned by moralists. Literary reviewers were no kinder, describing it as a hodgepodge of banal dialogue, clumsy prose, and laughable anachronisms. Needless to say, the Prandall Prize remained unawarded, although the book was, predictably, a best seller.

  For all its faults, she regarded the book with affection, because the well-worn second-hand copy of Heaven’s Blessings she had stumbled across in an English bookshop had been her first encounter with Artemisia the person. Of course, it wasn’t until she took Barbara’s Romantic Poets class the second semester of her senior year that she had first truly come to appreciate Artemisia’s poetry. And now, thanks to Artemisia, here she was, about to embark on a genuine academic adventure that could earn significant recognition from her peers. What’s more, the Brockenbridge award was not only an almost certain passport to a full-time university position, but if she played her cards right, it would amplify her chances of eventually getting tenure—provided she first managed to produce something worthwhile with her fellowship.

  “You’re absolutely right, Ian. I don’t think it’s tempting fate overmuch to predict that whatever I come up with will outdo Heaven’s Blessings. At the very least, I can promise to avoid using supernatural manifestations as a source for my research. No crystal ball, no Ouija board, just plain, old-fashioned books and manuscripts.”

  “Well, speaking of manuscripts, I’m sure I’ve got the odd letter from Oona tucked away here and there, and though I don’t recall her ever mentioning anything to the purpose, perhaps some contain tales of Artemisia. And of course, I’ve the stories she told me over the years. High time I wrote those down. Once I’ve got everything in some kind of sensible order, I’ll post it all off to you.”

  “That would be wonderful, Ian, but please—I’d rather have you send me bits and pieces as they come to you. Even the smallest thing might be just the hint I need to spark my research, and I’m anxious to get to work right away. You can always send me updates and revisions later.”

  “Of course, my dear, if you really would prefer that. I’m so proud of you, and I want to assist you in any way that I can. Which reminds me…” He got to his feet, moving a bit more stiffly than Alex recalled from past years, and left the room.

  A few moments later, he returned, holding out a photograph. “I think this will be of interest to you.”

  Alex looked at it with curiosity. The scene in the black-and-white photo was completely unfamiliar to her. It was an outdoor group of happy-looking children of various ages, all gathered around the seated figure of an old woman who was smiling serenely, gazing directly at the camera in a way that made Alex feel as if she were looking directly at her. From the clothing, Alex could tell that the photo dated from the mid- to late-Victorian period, but beyond that she was at a loss.

  Ian pointed to one of the older boys. “That’s Oona.”

  Stunned, Alex looked closer. The sturdy figure dressed in scruffy trousers and a disreputable shirt did have rather delicate features and sported a suspiciously bulging cap that could easily be concealing a quantity of long hair.

  “She’s got quite a mischievous smile, Ian. It reminds me of yours.”

  “That’s what Mam would always say.” Almost imperceptibly, he sighed.

  After a moment, Alex asked, “Who’s the woman?”

  “Oh, that’s Janet, of course.”

  “Janet? Why of course?”

  “Oh, the whole village knew Janet. Before my time, you understand, but everyone used to talk about her so much I feel like I knew her myself. She was a great favorite with all the children in the old days. Apparently she had the magical ability to conjure up gingerbread or jam tarts for small visitors, along with a kind word or a lively story, at a moment’s notice.”

  He smiled as if the happy memories were his own, not just reported to him. “And she was always there to soothe a broken heart or offer a word of advice when it was most needed. Seems she was a bit of a matchmaker, too, and more often than not successful. She’d been gone fifty years when I first came to Bramfell, and you’d think she was still around. Of course…”

  He stopped, perhaps realizing Alex was too focused on the photo to really listen. Janet’s trim figure was dressed simply and neatly in a dark dress of some sturdy material with a hint of lace at the collar and cuffs. Her snowy hair was covered with a sensible white cap sporting a restrained black ribbon
. Except for smile lines around her eyes, her face was unwrinkled. She could have been anywhere from sixty to ninety.

  Janet wore no jewelry, but there was a bunch of keys at her waist, and on a long cord or chain around her neck was another key, larger and more ornate than the others. In her hands she held a large book with a marbled paper cover that had a tiny rose stamped in one corner, from the looks of it some sort of notebook. It was probably a household account book, since the keys she wore, along with her respectable clothing, proclaimed her status as a housekeeper, the acme of a career in domestic service for a woman. She looked confident and content, sitting in the bright sunshine on a neatly trimmed lawn, surrounded by children who crowded around her with obvious affection.

  “When was this photo taken? Do you know?”

  “I think it was 1877—it’s written on the back.”

  Alex turned the photograph over. The date was written in faded blue ink. “Yes, 1877.”

  “It was sometime in July. I’m not sure which day, but I do know it was her birthday—Janet’s, I mean. I can’t remember now if it was her eighty-seventh or eighty-eighth. The portrait was going to be a gift from the children. They’d all saved their pennies to hire the photographer. Oona was the one who organized it, so the photographer gave it to her. I think he felt sorry for her.”

  “Sorry for her?”

  “Oh, didn’t I say? This photo was taken the day Janet died.”

  “What? The day she died? But she looks so, so—”

  “Healthy? Happy? Yes, all that and more. Apparently she hardly ever had a day’s illness, and as you can see, she seems perfectly fine. There was no reason to suspect anything was wrong.” He paused, looking up and away as if into the distance, or the past. “Oona was the one who found her.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “She used to do odd jobs and run errands for Janet, earn a bit of pocket money. She went over next morning at her usual time, and there Janet was, lying on the floor in the upstairs hall, just at the top of the stairs.” He shivered. “I think she must have had a stroke, or a heart attack.”

  “How awful.”

  “Perhaps it was for the best, hard as it was for the ones who loved and lost her. I don’t think she suffered, and clearly she was in good spirits, I dare say right to the end.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s the best any of us can hope for. Still, it must have been very difficult for your great-aunt.”

  “Indeed. She and her parents didn’t always get on very well, so I think she must have looked to Janet for some of what she missed by way of affection and guidance. I know they were close, and she was always happy to tell me stories about Janet—other than that one. She was housekeeper at Dawson House. Started as a maid, then worked her way up.”

  “Your great-aunt knew someone who actually worked at Dawson House? I can hardly believe it. How long did Janet work there?”

  “Let’s see now, I think it was—you know, I’m really not sure, but it must have been a good sixty or seventy years. Oona told me once she started there when she was only in her teens.”

  “But that means—”

  “Oh yes, Alexandra. Janet worked for Artemisia.”

  For a moment Alex was too stunned to speak. She looked down at the photo again. She was holding in her hands the image of someone who had known Artemisia, spent time with her, served tea to her, actually talked to her—about the daily menu and the silverware count, no doubt, but still, had talked to her. She gazed reverently at Janet’s face. This woman had actually known Artemisia.

  Her gaze transferred to Oona—who had known Janet, whom Ian had known. And she herself knew Ian. An unbroken chain reaching back into the past, a chain of knowledge and, at least for Ian and Oona and Janet, a chain of strong affection, which she felt privileged to share in.

  She looked up at Ian, feeling the wonder, knowing it must be shining in her eyes.

  “Oh, Ian! Thank you so much for showing me this, and for telling me about it. Is there any chance that I could…” She didn’t dare ask for something so precious, even as a loan, but Ian seemed to realize what she couldn’t put into words.

  “Keep it? Of course I want you to keep it. Don’t worry, it’s just a copy. I donated the original to the Foundation years ago, so the museum could preserve it properly. There are plenty of copies, including one on display in the kitchen at Dawson House.”

  “Thank you. This is so special—you have no idea. You can’t imagine what a wonderful gift this is.” Ian smiled but said nothing, clearly touched by her reaction. “But I warn you, now I’m more determined than ever to get my hands on your recollections of Oona and her stories. You’d better start on it immediately. If I have to wait too long for the details, I may explode.”

  Alex made her apologies and called it a night in anticipation of her early train to Yorkshire the following morning.

  Chapter Two

  Alex woke with a start, just catching the tail end of the announcement that they were pulling into Dunheath, the closest train station to Bramfell. She was slightly embarrassed at having fallen asleep on the train journey north, but the soothing rhythm of the train and the exertions of travel had their inevitable effect.

  She disembarked, dragging her luggage into a chill, steady drizzle that managed to insinuate itself down the back of her neck in record time.

  “Oh, to be in England, now that April’s there!” Alex declaimed sarcastically, wondering how anyone who had actually experienced English weather could ever have penned such nonsense. Was it Browning or Tennyson? She couldn’t remember. In any case, whoever it was had possessed a very poor grasp of matters meteorological. Besides, it was July, damn it—shouldn’t summer be in full swing? With a sigh, she looked around.

  Her next task, the guidebook had assured her, was to make her way from Dunheath to a place called Martinwick, and from there to Bramfell. The book had been somewhat vague about how this feat was to be accomplished, referring to local public transportation but giving no specifics. Now all she had to do was find a Martinwick-bound bus.

  The tiny platform was completely deserted, and the wall before her was devoid of any signage beyond a faded marker displaying the station name. Nothing else was visible but a ramshackle building that she sincerely hoped was actually the station office.

  And so it proved. The sole inhabitant was an elderly functionary who looked like he might well have taken up his post in Queen Victoria’s day and remained on duty ever since.

  So far, so good.

  But when she asked about the schedule for the bus to Martinwick, he looked at her dubiously. When she repeated her request, carefully sounding out each syllable, Mar-tin-wick, he actually scowled.

  “Thou’ll not find a bus to Mar’ick.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There’s no bus on. Mar’ick’s got no bus.” He was employing the universal response to conversational difficulties with fools and foreigners of repeating the same words over and over, louder each time, hoping that volume would bridge the comprehension gap.

  It worked. His statement was suddenly, dismayingly clear.

  “There’s no bus? But then how do I get to…Mar’ick?”

  Astonishingly, he favored her with something resembling a smile, accompanied by a strange head gesture, a sort of upward chin tilt aimed in the general direction of the air over her left shoulder. “Thou’ll be wanting that Cam, then.”

  “That what?”

  “That’ll be me, then, won’t it?”

  Turning around, Alex saw that the owner of the new voice was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and to judge by her amused expression, had apparently been there for some time.

  “Ey up, Cam.”

  “Ey up, Seth. All well?”

  “Aye. Miss here be for Mar’ick, then.”

  “So I gather.”

  During this exchange, Alex had been intently studying the newcomer. Medium height, solid build, hair a warm shade of golden brown and almost long en
ough to brush her shoulders. Not bad. Even better was the way she was standing there, hands in her pockets, with just the hint of a twinkle in her hazel eyes and a bit of a smile for Alex even while she was talking with the railway clerk.

  Alex felt herself smiling back. Apparently the wilds of Yorkshire had more to offer than she had expected.

  Alex said, “Actually, I’m headed for another town, a place called Bramfell. It’s just that the guidebook suggested the best way to get there was by going through Mar’ick.”

  Cam laughed in an indulgent way that made Alex bristle. “Town! Bramfell’s just a village, lass.”

  Lass? Just who did she think—

  “So’s Mar’ick, for that matter,” Cam said. “If it’s a town you’re after, the only one hereabouts is Leeds.”

  With a touch of asperity, Alex said, “I need to get to Bramfell, not Leeds, thank you. This gentleman seems to think you can help me.”

  “That I can.” Cam picked up Alex’s two suitcases as if they weighed nothing at all and headed out the door. “See thee, Seth,” she called over her shoulder as the door started to close behind her, leaving Alex no choice but to grab her backpack and follow her outside.

  “Now wait just a minute. You can’t just take my things and—”

  Cam didn’t bother to reply, merely holding out a hand for the backpack, obviously intending to place it beside the suitcases she had already stowed in the back of her vehicle, a strange sort of truck/van hybrid that had clearly seen better days. Not that it didn’t appear to be well-maintained, and so clean it practically sparkled, even in the drizzle, with Carter’s Contracting stenciled on the side in jaunty red letters backed by a thick white stripe that stood out boldly against the van’s dark paint. But no amount of surface shine could disguise the dings and dents it had acquired in what must have been many years of service. Alex was unable to identify the make or model, but something about the overall look of the thing made her think of Eastern Europe—before the Berlin Wall came down. Doubtless its level of comfort and safety were on a par with its appearance.