When Daphne came out of the house, and walked across the grass, she called out to Tommy, saying that she would join them soon, as a wicket-keeper, but first she must spend a little while in her writing hut. 'I won't be long,' she said, 'I'm nearly finished.' In her hands were a brown-paper parcel and two letters that she laid out on her desk in the hut: the first a letter from Mrs Symington, that had accompanied the parcel, the second, which had only just been delivered today, from Sir Linton Andrews, the chairman of the Brontë Society, and editor of the Yorkshire Post.
Daphne had already replied to Beatrice Symington's letter, as soon as she received it last month, sending her heartfelt condolences, and expressing her admiration for Mr Symington, her sorrow that he had not lived to see the book that she had dedicated to him, and her thanks for the contents of the parcel. Immediately afterwards, she had written to Sir Linton Andrews, suggesting that a memorial of some kind be made in honour of Symington's unflagging work on behalf of Branwell Brontë. But Sir Linton's response was profoundly disturbing, as she read it through for the first time at her desk now. Of course, she noted his initial description of her biography as 'uncommonly good', which was encouraging, and went some way to allay her creeping fears that rather than resuscitating Branwell, she had killed him off, somehow smothering him within the pages of her biography; though she had not spoken of her anxiety about the forthcoming publication to anyone, feeling it to be dishonourable and selfish in the wake of Peter's death, which must take precedence over her own, more trivial worries about reviews and sales.
And at first, she thought Sir Linton was being particularly complimentary about her theory concerning Branwell's dismissal as tutor from the Robinson household; but a few seconds afterwards, on re-reading the relevant passage in his letter, she wondered if he might in fact be quietly reminding her that she was no closer to reaching the real truth about Branwell than anyone else had been.
His comments on Mr Symington, however, were forthright and to the point, and as soon as she reached this part of his letter, Daphne began to feel alarmed and angry and foolish and ashamed. How could she not have realised that Symington was quite such a slippery character? It wasn't just that odd encounter when she'd visited his house last winter, but also his evasiveness about spending time in the Parsonage library on her behalf. In fact, realised Daphne with a sinking heart, it might very well have been on his eventual trips to the Parsonage last year that he had pilfered more manuscripts, spurred on by her demands for fresh material.
And yet, she could not bring herself to condemn him altogether, for he had certainly not made himself rich on the proceeds of his obsessive collecting. When she had telephoned Symington's widow last month, soon after receiving the news of his death from pneumonia, it had become abundantly clear that the poor woman was left penniless; hence the sale of the house, and the brief report in the local paper that Mr Symington's estate had amounted to just over £400.
Still, it was also becoming evident to Daphne - even without Sir Linton's delicately phrased hints - that the manuscripts she had bought from Symington must now be donated to the Brontë Parsonage Museum, along with the two items sent to her in the parcel last month by Mrs Symington, which she picked up again now, and turned over in her hands. Daphne would be sad to lose these: the first a slim morocco leather-bound volume, containing the fragmentary drafts of a poem that T. J. Wise had attributed to Emily Brontë, and presumably sold as such, and yet which was clearly in Branwell's handwriting. Daphne liked the poem, even though it was obviously unfinished, and had copied it out in her own handwriting, and pinned it to the wall of her writing hut, where she glanced at the first stanza again:
The Heart which cannot know another
Which owns no lover friend or brother
In whom those names without reply
Unechoed and unheeded die.
She was also admiring of Mr Symington's perspicacity in recognising the handwriting as Branwell's - which he had pointed out to her in one of two notes tucked into the package posted by his widow (albeit written in the shakiest hand himself) - and also in identifying the poem as having been written on the back of Branwell's torn-up draft of a letter of application to study art at the Royal Academy. That Branwell had never become an art student - indeed, might never have posted his letter of application - seemed to Daphne to be a failure that was reflected again in Mr Symington's own failings. He had never written his book about Branwell Brontë; he had never proved that T. J. Wise had forged Charlotte Brontë's signature on Branwell's childhood chronicles of Angria, or Emily's signature on Branwell's poetry; he had not even posted this letter, or the accompanying package, to Daphne; perhaps he had thought better of giving her either a gift of the manuscripts, or the insights in his letter. It had been left to his widow to do so, but that had been a matter of chance; she might very well have overlooked the package, in the stress of moving and sorting through his ramshackle library and study.
And whatever Mr Symington's intentions, his motives were difficult to fathom in the second handwritten note, which seemed to be less immediately relevant to the morocco leather-bound volume, or indeed to the question of Branwell Brontë. Daphne picked up this note, and looked at it again. On it, Mr Symington had written, "'Self-Interrogation": do with this what you will.' Presumably, his message concerned the other item in the parcel from Mrs Symington: a small, mildewed leather notebook, whose contents had been destroyed by rampant damp and mould. Daphne had, at first, intended to include this enigmatic note, and the ravaged notebook, in her package to the Brontë Parsonage Museum, with the morocco volume and the manuscripts of Branwell's poems and letters that she had previously purchased from Mr Symington.
At the last minute, however, she took out the little notebook, and Symington's one-line note to her. There could be no harm in keeping this back, when everything else was being returned to the Parsonage, to be examined and catalogued and exhibited to the world. But this: this belonged with Daphne, here in Menabilly; a wordless book in the wordless woods. Let it rest safely here with her, along with the others, the secrets and the ghosts.
Daphne stood up, put her head back, and stretched her arms, so that her fingertips reached the ceiling. Then she walked out of the writing hut, out of its shadows and into the sunlight, and the day was so bright, her eyes were dazzled, and as she stepped forward, she could not yet see what lay before her.
DAPHNE DU MAURIER FAMILY TREE
* Gerald du Maurier was friends with J.M. Barrie and played Captain Hook and Mr Darling in the first and subsequent productions of Peter Pan.
• Angela du Maurier, Daphne's older sister, played Wendy in a later production of Peter Pan
◊ When the five Llewelyn Davies brothers - the inspiration for Peter Pan - were orphaned in 1910, they were adopted by J.M. Barrie.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Although this book is fiction, it is based on a true story. Like the contemporary narrator of my novel, I became utterly possessed by the story, and obsessed by the paper trail of Brontë manuscripts and what passed between Daphne du Maurier and John Alexander Symington; like her, I burrowed through the catacombs of library archives and second-hand bookshops to discover lost or forgotten letters; like her, I was born in Bay Tree Lodge in Hampstead, around the corner from the du Maurier and Llewelyn Davies family graves in Church Row, and Daphne's childhood home in Cannon Hall.
But unlike my narrator, I was fortunate enough to receive a great deal of help from the du Maurier family in researching this novel. I am grateful to Daphne's son and daughter-in-law, Christian and Hacker Browning, for their patience and good humour in the face of my questions, for their generosity in allowing me to see Ferryside and their hospitality whenever I came to Fowey. Daphne du Maurier's daughters, Lady Tessa Montgomery and Lady Flavia Leng, were similarly helpful, and provided a huge amount of insight and information, as did her grandson, Rupert Tower. I am also indebted to Henrietta Llewelyn Davies, great-granddaughter of Sylvia Llewelyn Davies and great nie
ce of Peter Llewelyn Davies, for her wise and perceptive advice.
Further insights into Daphne's story came from her friends, Oriel Malet and Maureen Baker-Munton (formerly Tommy Browning's secretary). Daphne's oldest friend, Mary Fox, who knew her from childhood, was kind enough to share her memories with me, as did Mary's sister, Pam Michael, and their nephew, Robert Fox, who visited Menabilly as a child.
Symington's grandson, Charles Symington, provided a great deal of background to his family history and the book trade. (He now runs an excellent bookbinders in York.) Juliet Barker, a former curator and librarian of the Brontë Parsonage Museum, was the first person to draw my attention to that most enigmatic of her predecessors, J. A. Symington, and her expertise has been invaluable; while her kindness extended to letting me stay with her in Yorkshire. I have also drawn on the definitive scholarship contained within her book, The Brontës.
Ann Dinsdale, Collections Manager at the Brontë Parsonage Museum, has been unfailingly helpful and knowledgeable in her responses to my queries, as has Andrew McCarthy, deputy director of the Brontë Parsonage Museum, along with the rest of the staff there. I would also like to thank the Brontë Society, in particular its president, Rebecca Fraser.
Uncovering the relevant letters and papers that I have drawn on in this novel would have been impossible without the help of Dr Jessica Gardner, Head of Special Collections at the University of Exeter, which holds the du Maurier family archive; Chris Sheppard, Head of Special Collections at the Brotherton Library at the University of Leeds; and John Smurthwaite, at the University of Leeds library, who is the author of The Life of John Alexander Symington.
I am also indebted to the following authors and books: Margaret Forster, Daphne du Maurier; Flavia Leng, Daphne du Maurier: A Daughter's Memoir; Angela du Maurier, It's Only the Sister; Oriel Malet, Letters from Menubilly; Andrew Birkin, J. M. Barrie and the Lost Boys and, of course, du Maurier's own autobiographical books, Myself When Young, The Rebecca Notebook and Gerald. These and hundreds more books (some of them very rare indeed) can be found at a wonderful bookshop, Bookends of Fowey (www.bookendsoffowey.com) which is run by Ann Willmore, a literary sleuth who not only helped me in my quest to untangle various du Maurier mysteries, but also - along with her husband, David - looked after me in Fowey.
The numbered page references in Symington's letter concerning his suspicions about forged Brontë signatures are accurate, and I have included them in this novel so that anyone who wishes to investigate further can check these against the facsimiles contained within the Shakespeare Head edition. The lines from Emily Brontë's poem, 'Self-Interrogation', are from the missing Honresfeld manuscript, which has not yet been found. As for the quotations I have used from Branwell Brontë's poetry: these come from manuscripts held at the Brontë Parsonage Museum, donated by Daphne du Maurier to the Parsonage, and originally sold to her by Symington. I have also consulted The Work of Patrick Branwell Brontë, edited by Victor A. Neufeldt, and Emily Jane Brontë: The Complete Poems, edited by Janet Gezari. Both of these professors were generous in sharing their time and knowledge with me, as were Professor Helen Taylor, Sally Beauman and Andrew Birkin.
Finally, thanks are due to my rigorous yet patient editors, Alexandra Pringle and Gillian Stern; my agent Ed Victor, along with his colleagues, Grainne Fox and Linda Van; Polly Samson, O1 Parker and Maggie O'Farrell, for their suggestions and incisive comments; my sons Jamie and Tom, who braved the Cornish winter and Menabilly ghosts with me; my husband, Neill MacColl, whose encouragement and support was entirely unlike the narrator's husband, even when I was at my most obsessive; and my mother, Hilary Britten, who kept me from giving up or going under.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Justine Picardie is the author of If the Spirit Moves You: Life and Love After Death, the novel Wish I May and, most recently, My Mother's Wedding Dress. She is also the co-writer or editor of several other books. She was formerly the features editor of British Vogue and is now a columnist for the Sunday Telegraph Magazine and also writes for Harper's Bazaar. She lives in London with her husband and two sons.
Visit Justine's blog at http://justine-picardie.blogspot.com
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