He'd drive through the night to be with her, whenever he could get leave from his regiment, bringing her an armful of roses on the morning of her twenty-fifth birthday in May, and a bottle of champagne that they drank together in the garden at Ferryside, watching the great ships go out to sea from Fowey harbour, led by a sturdy pilot tug, as the dinghies and wooden yachts bobbed around in their wake. And they explored the little town, breathing in its smell of tar and rope and tidal water, and the coastline beyond it, walking out past St Catherine's Point to Coombe, where there was a hidden beach, a smugglers' cove, and the encircling cliffs were covered in ox-eye daisies, sea campion and blossoming primroses, that somehow clung to the crevices, and lapwings swooped down to the water's edge. Finally, she took him to her secret place, further west along the cliff from Coombe to the beach at Polridmouth, and then climbing over the gate by the solitary cottage, up the narrow path that led through the woods to Menabilly. The bluebells were out, their smoky scent mingling with the moss and the young bracken; their colour a challenge to the sky. When they reached the deserted house, she took him by the hand and led him to the window where you could see through tattered curtains into an abandoned room with dark panelled walls and a great fireplace, and a forgotten corkscrew lying upon an oak sideboard, and the solemn faces of family portraits staring down through their veils of cobwebs and cracked varnish. 'One day I'll live here,' she said to Tommy.
'One day, I'll live here with you,' he said, and pulled her down with him, into the long grass.
Where had they gone to, she wondered, as she gazed out of the same window now, out into the wintry darkness, to the place where she and Tommy had been wrapped in each other's arms, cocooned in a nest of grass and sunlight? Did the ghosts of those young lovers still look through the glass, from the garden, while she and Tommy grew older indoors? If she closed her eyes, and listened carefully, she could almost hear his voice. 'I don't want anything sleazy for us,' he said to her, between kisses, 'an affair would be too sordid, too meaningless, when you mean the world to me . . .'
So there was nothing for it but to be married. They were engaged by the middle of June, and married in July, a little more than three months after Tommy had first introduced himself. She wrote to tell her mother the news, preferring that Muriel should make the announcement to Gerald; he promptly burst into tears, but nevertheless her parents were present for the wedding, along with Geoffrey. It was early in the morning when they took the boat from Ferryside to Pont bridge, so as to catch the tide, and then they walked up the steep path, fringed by wild honeysuckle and ferns, to the church, which stood alone amidst the fields. Above the entrance, there was a sundial, and an inscription that Gerald read out - 'Watch and Pray, Time Haste's Away' - and then they'd gone inside, where Tommy was already waiting for her by the altar, handsome in his Major's uniform. Daphne wore a blue skirt and coat, for she had sworn she wanted a quiet wedding, nothing showy, just a handful of guests. But standing there, in the ancient church, where Jane Slade had been buried, in the dappled sunlight that shone through the stained-glass windows, beneath the wooden arches of the medieval roof, Daphne had known this to be as romantic as a traditional love story.
Why, then, had she undermined her marriage from the start by asking Geoffrey to be there, when even her sisters and Tommy's family were not? What on earth had possessed her to do such a devilish act? As Daphne glanced over at her wedding photographs on the piano - Tommy looking so proud, and strong, too, blithe and oblivious of what lay ahead - she felt suddenly overcome with guilt, filled with a terrible sense of disgust at herself, knowing that Geoffrey's presence had been the beginning of her betrayals and treachery, that there was no one to blame but herself, for she had invited him into the holiest of places, into Lanteglos church; she had let him stand there, beside Tommy, making everything dirty again. Yet the deceits had begun long before then, for in kissing Geoffrey, she knew her father to feel betrayed, and that, surely, was itself a betrayal of her mother? And had she not thought of her father as she kissed Geoffrey, had she not imagined what it might be to kiss Gerald, or was it more than her imagination, had she, in fact, been kissed by her father, when she was still a child, had he desired her, just as Geoffrey did?
No, she would not think of it, she could not think of it; it was impossible, an obscenity that should be banished back into the crevice where it came from. Daphne's hands were shaking as she returned to her desk in the corner of the room to lock the diary safely away, and she could not make the key turn in the drawer, it seemed to resist her fingers. 'You little fool,' she muttered to herself, but as she spoke, it seemed to be her mother's voice that she heard. She dropped the key and fell to her knees, scrabbling for it on the floor; but there was a rushing sound in her ears, and voices, she could hear her father calling her. She swallowed hard, and saw the key, glinting in the corner, and this time she forced herself to be more careful as she picked it up and locked the drawer. Then she poured herself a glass of brandy to steady her nerves.
But it was no good, she could still see her father's face, eyeing her up from his vantage point on the mantelpiece; she had to get away from where he could watch over her. So she did what she had always forbidden her children to do: unlocked the door at the end of the Long Room, between the inhabited part of Menabilly and its unlived-in wing, and stepped into the darkness, where the rooms were filled with dust and bats and ghosts, where nothing had changed since she first trespassed here. There was no electricity in this part of the house, but her eyes soon grew accustomed to the shadowy gloom, for the curtains were shredded and the shutters decaying, allowing the occasional shaft of moonlight to shine through the windows, like a path across the floor. Daphne could hear rustles, though always just around the corner; rats, probably, this wing was infested with them, but sometimes she thought she could hear a low laugh, or the light tread of footsteps other than her own.
None of this frightened her - she felt safer here, on familiar territory, as if she might be one of Menabilly's ghosts, a companion to the lady in blue, who was sometimes glimpsed looking out of a side window on the upper floor, though her face was always hidden; or the Cavalier whose skeleton was found entombed in a buttress wall over a hundred years ago; or Rebecca, how could she have forgotten Rebecca? She moved quickly, deft, like Rebecca; she was strong, like Rebecca, the mistress of this house, dancing in the moonlight in an empty room, a phantom waltzing alone in the dust.
And then, all at once, the shadows seemed to gather into shapes, and they were too much for her, her breath caught in her throat. 'Watch your step,' whispered a voice into her ear, and Daphne spun around, but there was no one, she could see nothing, and she started running, stumbling, back to the door into her part of the house. 'Your house?' said the whisperer. 'I don't think so. You are not the mistress here.'
CHAPTER TWENTY
Newlay Grove, May 1959.
Symington was in a quandary, finding himself apparently unable to move forward or go back. Daphne had made it clear, in a series of increasingly frequent letters over the last three months, that she was determined to find each of Branwell's manuscripts, and would not stop until she had done so. She asked for his help, and Symington found himself offering it, but he knew that he was cornered. Daphne wanted him to go to the Parsonage, to transcribe Branwell's manuscripts that were held there, and to arrange for them to be copied, and Symington agreed to this - she was offering to pay for his services, and he badly needed the money. But he was also painfully aware that he would not be welcomed at the Parsonage; indeed, would almost certainly be turned away, should he request an appointment there.
Meanwhile, her letters kept coming, asking for more and more information; and he took days to compose the briefest of replies. And now he was running out of excuses about his failure to visit the Parsonage; firstly, he'd written to her, by way of explanation, that it was closed for the Easter holidays, then that the Brontë Society had tangled everything in red tape and bureaucracy, and was refusing access
to anyone who wanted to conduct research in the Parsonage library and archives. But Daphne was relentless, and wrote again, suggesting that he visited the Brotherton Library at Leeds University instead, to get to work on Branwell's manuscripts there, and enclosing a generous cheque for his future expenses, which he cashed, and spent on the mounting household bills.
Symington knew that his presence at the Brotherton Library would be equally unwelcome, might even precipitate another bout of legal action against him. He considered going anonymously - it was twenty years, after all, since he was last seen there; even longer since he worked at the Parsonage - but feared that someone might recognise him, and make an embarrassing scene in public, might even call the police.
And then yet another letter arrived from her this morning in a swift reply to his last note, in which he'd told her that the Brontë Society had not yet responded to his most recent request to have access to the Parsonage library (a request that he had not, in fact, got round to making). 'How maddening for you having so much trouble in getting permission to look at the manuscripts,' wrote Daphne in a swift reply, 'you don't think by any chance that the Brontë Society is afraid you are going to find out something that might show the poor despised Branwell to advantage? (!)'
Symington could see that Daphne had underlined the word 'afraid', very firmly, and he wondered if this might be a message to him. There was nothing for it, he realised now, but to let her have something from his collection of manuscripts, and perhaps some snippets of information about Wise's forgeries, to keep her occupied. At least this should buy him a little more time; not only with Daphne, but also with Beatrice, who warned him that they would lose the house, and much of its contents, if money were not swiftly forthcoming. There were several manuscripts of Branwell's poems that he could sell to Daphne, none of them controversial, for though he had borrowed them from the Brontë Parsonage Museum while he was working there, no one knew of their existence at the time, as far as Symington could tell, and therefore no one mourned their disappearance. In fact, it was the lack of interest shown by anyone at all in these poems that had prompted Symington to remove them from the Parsonage in the first place; they seemed to him to be like unloved, neglected children, whose interests would be best served by providing them with a far more caring home.
It took Symington all morning to locate one of these manuscripts; he had hidden it some time ago, between the leaves of an unrelated book, as a defence against burglary. Once he had found it, he read it - for this was one of Branwell's more legible manuscripts, which was why it pained him to let it go. It contained two sonnets, one written on the upper half of the page, another on the lower half. Both were equally gloomy, reflecting Symington's current state of mind, both were signed 'Northangerland'. It had been some time since Symington had read any of Branwell's writing; he had avoided it, ever since his stay in hospital, almost as if it were a necessary part of his convalescence. But as he read the poems, over and over, speaking them out loud, he felt the old sense of excitement stirring inside him again.
The first was his favourite - 'Peaceful death and happy life' - and it seemed to Symington to be at least as good as anything written by Branwell's more famous sisters. These were lines that should be learnt by heart, thought Symington, and he set to work, repeating them, until he felt almost as if he had written the poem himself, and Branwell's voice (the voice that must be kept out of his head, for no good had ever come from it) was drowned by his own:
Why dost thou sorrow for the happy dead
For if their life be lost, their toils are oer
And woe and want shall trouble them no more,
Nor ever slept they in an earthly bed
So sound as now they sleep while, dreamless, laid
In the dark chambers of that unknown shore
Where Night and Silence seal each guarded door:
So, turn from such as these thy drooping head
And mourn the 'dead alive' - whose spirit flies -
Whose life departs before his death has come -
Who finds no Heaven beyond Life's gloomy skies,
Who sees no Hope to brighten up that gloom;
Tis HE who feels the worm that never dies -
The REAL death and darkness of the tomb.
Once he had committed this to heart, Symington discovered that the second poem, written on the lower half of the page, was also unexpectedly rousing, when read out loud. The house was empty, but he imagined an audience before him as he declaimed the title - 'The Callousness produced by care' - and then the poem:
Why hold young eyes the fullest fount of tears
And why do youthful breasts the oftenest sigh
When fancied friends forsake, or lovers fly,
Or fancied woes and dangers waken fears:
Ah! He who asks has seen but springtide years,
Or Times rough voice had long since told him why!
Increase of days increases misery,
And misery brings selfishness, which sears
The hearts first feelings - mid the battles roar
In Deaths dread grasp the soldiers eyes are blind
To other's pains - So he whose hopes are oer
Turns coldly from the suffering of mankind.
A bleeding spirit will delight in gore -
A tortured heart will make a Tyrant mind.
Several hours later, Symington was hoarse, having chanted both the poems over and over again, yet triumphant. And by the time Beatrice had returned home after another of her committee meetings, well into the evening (and too late to cook him a hot dinner), Symington was still feeling strangely exhilarated, despite the fact that he was about to lose the manuscript that had inspired him so much today; for finally, it was sealed up in an envelope, ready for the post.
What remained safe with Symington, however, was a careful copy of the manuscript; perhaps not quite as convincing as one of Wise's forgeries, but a very reasonable attempt, nonetheless, and made entirely his own. Symington was not quite certain what he would do with his version, but the mere fact of its existence was a comfort. It was good to create secrets again.
Newlay Grove,
Horsforth,
Leeds
Telephone: 2615 Horsforth
20th May 1959
Dear Miss du Maurier,
Thank you for the cheque to cover my expenses, and my apologies for the delay in replying to your letters, but I have been deep in research on your behalf: Despite my best efforts, it has not been easy. One runs up against so many annoying regulations at the Parsonage, and then at other libraries one discovers that certain books and manuscripts are missing, which is yet more evidence of the shoddiness of care and lack of proper guardianship.
Nevertheless, I have managed to unearth an interesting manuscript of Branwell's poetry, which I will be sending to you in due course. I am also making plans to visit the Brontë Parsonage over the Whitsun Bank Holiday weekend, when I should have the place to myself:
Now, I know I can rely on your discretion, but I must ask you to destroy this letter after you have read it, because I am going to give you the exact page references from the Shakespeare Head edition that relate to those suspicious signatures of Charlotte Brontë. I personally doubt the genuineness of the signatures that appear on the facsimile manuscripts in the following pages of volume 1 of the Shakespeare Head: 221, 298, 313, 327, 329, 331, 352, 376, 378, 405, 480. And in volume 2, you should examine Charlotte's signatures on page 51, 54, 65, 69, 93 and 97.
The subject of the forged signatures was not one that Wise would discuss with me, and I never had the opportunity to put the question to Mr Shorter before his death. Make what you will of this mystery . . .
I will report back with any further news after my trip to Haworth next week,
Yours sincerely,
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Hampstead, 2 June
I'd given up all hope of seeing Rachel again - I guessed she was back in America - and then the phone rang this
morning, quite early, though Paul had already gone, and I picked it up, and a woman's voice asked for him. I knew it was Rachel, before she'd said her name, before I'd even told her that Paul had left for the airport, on his way to an academic conference in Italy. And I did something entirely unexpected, I don't know why, I'd done it before I could stop myself. I said to Rachel that I was Paul's new wife, and that I'd met her a few months ago, in the Reading Room at the British Museum, but I'd been too shy and inept to tell her then. 'I'm so sorry,' I said. 'You must think I'm an idiot.'
'You're the young girl in the Reading Room?' she said, slowly. 'The one who's interested in Daphne du Maurier? I do remember you . . . How very odd . . .'
'I know, it must seem like a peculiar way to behave,' I said, 'inexcusable, really. But I was wondering if we might meet up, when you're in London next?'
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