She couldn’t be ill. I’d have to find another governess and maybe, if she left, Mr. Brontë would leave us too. But, ah, she was fine and coming to. What a fuss over nothing.
“Step aside, madam. Step aside. This lady is unwell,” said the man I’d heard policing the scene earlier.
“This lady is only our governess,” I snapped at him, at the very second that Mr. Brontë emerged.
The tutor was apologizing to a larger lady he’d knocked into in his haste. Thank heaven he hadn’t heard me.
The crowd was thinning now that the people could see Miss Brontë wasn’t a striking damsel in distress and that her life was in no immediate danger. We were in the theater after all, and beauty and death always provided the best spectacles.
“Thank you, sir, for your assistance,” I told our self-appointed director. “Would you be so kind as to fetch someone from the theater?”
He nodded and left, subdued.
“Anne?” Mr. Brontë bent over his sister.
“Branwell, I—I’ll—” Miss Brontë collapsed into a coughing fit that sounded a little forced to my ear.
“Mr. Brontë.” I touched his arm.
He spun toward me as if attracted to a magnet.
“Trust me to look after dear Miss Brontë.” My hand lingered a second too long. His arm was warm, his bicep taut.
He went to protest.
“No, no. I insist,” I said. “I wouldn’t have anyone else see to her.”
Miss Brontë’s coughing was constant, upsetting my nerves even more than the earlier clapping and bravos.
“Can you walk with the children?” I asked her brother, sorry to be rid of him but reestablishing control. “Take them back to the Cliff? Here’s Ned, the older girls, and— Where’s Mary?”
“I’ll find her.” Bessy kissed Miss Brontë’s forehead, stood, and hurried to the top of the next staircase.
Ned and Mr. Brontë followed her.
“Lydia,” I said in a tone I hoped was warning.
My oldest daughter hadn’t moved. She was still kneeling beside Miss Brontë and had a strange glint in her eye.
“Go with your sisters,” I said.
“Oh no, Mama,” she answered with a smile, her words ringing clear now that Miss Brontë’s fit had subsided. “I insist. I wouldn’t have anyone else see to dear Miss Brontë.”
Was she mocking me?
I didn’t have time to react to her insurrection. Three of the “manservants” were striding toward us, still wearing their tights.
“We hope you’ll allow us to assist you, madam.” One of them, a very handsome young man who must have been around Mr. Brontë’s age, addressed me. “Mr. Beverley is anxious that the lady be made comfortable.”
* * *
WE WERE USHERED THROUGH a disguised side door and led through a series of winding corridors, with uneven floorboards and greasy fingerprints along the walls. We must have looked a sorry procession—Lydia openmouthed to be “behind the curtain,” me flinching at the proximity of the actors, the incapacitated Miss Brontë at the rear. Soon we were in some sort of office and face-to-face with the man of the moment himself.
Up close, you could see that Mr. Beverley was born to be an actor. His face was large, flexible, and expressive, with arched brows and almost womanly full lips. He must have been six feet tall and dominated in the low-ceilinged room as much as onstage, his rich voice booming out just as loudly.
“No trouble at all, miss, I assure you!” He talked over Miss Brontë, hitting her with the full force of his chivalry and kissing her gloved hand.
She fell back in the chair our medieval gallants had deposited her in and drew a glass of water to her lips, quivering.
The desk in front of her was covered with receipts, playbills, and all manner of props—a pistol, a handkerchief embroidered with strawberries, and Mr. Beverley’s discarded skullcap. The room itself was cramped and windowless, with a pungent smell of gin.
“It is a pleasure, Mrs. Robinson, Miss Robinson, to meet you all,” the actor continued.
Lydia and I pulled back our hands in unison as he veered toward us.
“And my boy. Where is my boy? Well, we both say so, don’t we, my lad?”
The most handsome of the “manservants,” who had come to Miss Brontë’s rescue—the young man who had addressed me—had remained, unlike the others, and now stepped forward to join his father.
The likeness to Beverley was there, although the young man’s features were more classical. His mother must have been a beauty. His face had an honest look about it despite his profession, but that wasn’t enough to speak in his favor. We needed to extricate ourselves from this irregular situation and quickly, especially since Lydia had refused to leave with the others.
“Delighted, Mr. Beverley,” my daughter said, holding out her hand and giggling as the son swept into a bow flamboyant enough to rival his father’s curtain call.
“Not Beverley but Roxby,” he said, hovering over her knuckles and flashing her a smile. “Henry Roxby.”
A bastard? Shameless, intolerable. What would Edmund say if he could see the company our daughter was keeping?
My disgust must have been visible, for “old Harry,” as the locals called him, hurried to correct my assumption.
“Beverley is my nom de guerre, Mrs. Robinson, and my son Henry Roxby Junior. And so, I suppose, we now meet again!” This time he succeeded in planting a kiss on my fingertips. “Not every visitor to the theater can say she has met the man behind the mask.”
“No indeed,” I said, wondering how many women had heard him use that line. I turned back to Miss Brontë. “You are quite well enough to travel, I trust?”
The governess’s cough belied her nod of acquiescence.
“Oh, but Mama, I have so many questions!” cried Lydia, still simpering at the young Mr. Roxby. “An actor’s life must be so romantic. Pray, tell us, are you often in London?”
But Henry Junior had no time to speak.
Instead, his father, our leading man, took off his cape with a flourish, and draped it over Lydia’s shoulders as if he was conferring a great honor on her.
“Ah, London!” he rhapsodized, extending an arm toward the heavens or, rather, toward the stained yellow ceiling. “What can I tell you of London?”
Lydia took a step away from him but didn’t remove the costume.
“Any visitor can’t help but fall for her charms and yet, for natives, London is more than that. It is”—he paused for effect—“in the blood!”
“I thought you were born in Hull, Father,” said young Roxby, eyes twinkling at my daughter.
She let out a peal of laughter.
“What’s this?” a gruff voice called out from behind the door. “Harry, if you have a woman in my office again, I swear to God—”
The door opened, and a man a little younger than me, who bore marks of kinship with the others although he was at least a head shorter, entered the room.
“Oh.” Nonplussed at our strange party, he stopped, taking in my fine clothes, Miss Brontë’s blanched complexion, and Lydia’s bizarre attire.
“These ladies are theatergoers, brother! The governess was taken ill,” said “Beverley,” as if this explained everything.
“My apologies,” the newcomer said slowly. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Roxby, the owner here.”
This was the juncture at which to take control.
“My name is Mrs. Edmund Robinson, and this is my daughter,” I said, unfastening the scarlet cape from around Lydia’s neck and throwing it across the desk. “Our governess fainted away in the crowd but has since collected herself. We wouldn’t presume to impose upon your hospitality, or your brother’s, any longer.”
In Mr. Samuel Roxby I had an ally. A look of understanding passed between us.
“Harry,” he said, “I hope you haven’t been regaling these ladies with your conversation when what they are in want of is a carriage? Go and dismiss the company for the
night—they must rest for tomorrow’s afternoon performance. And, Henry, lad, fetch the ladies a suitable conveyance immediately.”
Lydia scowled.
“Thank you,” I mouthed, surprised that “Harry Beverley” had submitted to his brother’s orders and was bestowing a decidedly undramatic good-bye upon us.
His son followed him. A look of childish heartbreak passed between Lydia and the boy as he shuffled to the door, glancing back over his shoulder.
This was the end, then, of our brief flirtation with the theater. I would miss Mr. Brontë and our conversations, but Lydia must be taught a lesson about how to behave and how she should not. She’d have a piece of my mind once we were home. If that girl thought I would countenance another concert, party, or play in our last two weeks in Scarborough, she was in for an unpleasant surprise.
As for Miss Brontë, she was lucky her brother was such a favorite. I employed a governess to keep the girls out of trouble, not to embroil them in it.
* * *
LYDIA WAS IN DISGRACE for more than a week and banished from our holiday. But what a holiday it was! I had imagined her, alone in her room, pining after the gaiety we enjoyed and recognizing the error of her conduct, but, instead, the weather forced the rest of us to remain indoors also. Worse, we were all penned in together.
With all the predictability of an English summer, the rain dribbled down the windows of our lodgings. The heavy droplets collided and coupled, their courses meandering and irregular, almost as if they could think, protest, feel.
Old Mrs. Robinson snored by the fire. Lighting it was an extravagance Edmund wouldn’t have allowed had I requested it, as our rooms were hardly cold. Bessy was studying the sporting pages from one of her father’s newspapers, and Mary, a novel.
Miss Brontë was hunched over with her nose nearly touching a piece of paper, busy and pious as ever, Flossy wedged between her and the back of her chair. She was adding some final touches to a sketch of Holy Trinity, our church in Little Ouseburn, making a great show of her draftsmanship. She’d even announced, unprompted, that she was thinking of making a gift of her picture to Reverend Greenhow, the curate. I’d told her I hardly thought it appropriate for a spinster governess to make gifts to a married man. And at that she’d gone quiet.
“Oh, can’t Lydia join us?” said Bessy, casting the newspaper aside as soon as she’d devoured the last words of the final column. “I’m bored.”
“She cannot,” I said, looking at the window and counting the beats between the irregular tremors caused by the wind.
“The post, madam,” said Marshall, appearing at the door and proffering two damp envelopes on a tray.
I took them by the corners, so as not to stain my hands with the running ink. I was grateful for the distraction despite the fierce constriction in my chest that had come every time I’d received a letter since the one that had brought me word of Mother’s death. Neither was addressed to me. One had a Haworth postmark. The knot released and fell to the depths of my stomach, like a stone sinking through water.
“Miss Brontë,” I said, holding out the first missive without looking at her.
She scuttled over and snatched it, not even thanking me but whispering “Emily” as she made out the weeping letters. Not Charlotte, then, though I knew she’d now returned for good from Brussels to Haworth. The eccentric Emily probably wrote of storms and wildflowers, and sent snatches of poetry. She wasn’t the one who’d delight in gossip from my household about the daughter who disobeyed me. Flossy, the ungrateful pup, had rolled over to take up even more of the seat, forcing Miss Brontë to perch on the edge. She huddled over her letter, deciphering the tiny print.
The other letter I kept and examined, turning it over between my hands.
I stole a glance at the girls. Bessy had found a new occupation, in reading over Mary’s shoulder. Neither of them was looking at me.
The rain had made the mistake plausible, and did I even need an excuse to read my daughter’s letters when she treated me with such disrespect?
I took my right thumb and smeared the “Miss.” The black ink pooled in the spiraling grooves of my skin.
Who was writing to young Lydia Robinson?
I unfolded the paper and held it half an arm’s length away until it came into focus. A feminine hand—there was that, at least.
28th July 1843
Kirby Hall
My dear Lydia,
Your last letter struck me as unkind on two counts. First, because it made me long that I might be with you in Scarborough, rather than at home where everything is the same as ever. And second, because you failed to mention the date on which you return.
You mustn’t forget me in favor of your new friends or enjoy yourself too much at concerts and the theater, or all of us in the Ouseburns will seem dull to you. Did you ever contrive to meet the company at the playhouse? I should so like to see the world in the wings, even though actors are an unscrupulous sort.
My sisters and I have convinced Papa that Grandmama is dead long enough that we might have a picnic. Only after you return, but I don’t know when that is! I say my sisters but mean only three of us. Henrietta is too confirmed a spinster to care for such things and Mary Ann is indisposed again, which is such a bore.
But at least that means Dr. Crosby attends us often, bringing all manner of gossip from Great Ouseburn and drawing Papa out of his study.
He—the doctor—is full of praise for your brother’s tutor. His name escapes me. I know you said he was too short to be handsome but we face such a dearth of unmarried male company. I wonder if your mama would countenance him joining our party? Otherwise we’ll have to invite the Milner brothers and then we must invite the sisters too.
Do write, Lydia, and tell me when I may set the date.
Your most sincere friend,
Amelia Thompson
P.S. One last piece of news. The date for my brother Harry’s nuptials is set. He is to marry a Miss Croft in August, but never fear, the wedding is in Kent and my sisters and I aren’t to go so it shouldn’t interfere with our picnic. Harry doesn’t plan to bring home his bride until the winter. I hope she is ugly. It wouldn’t do for her to be beautiful and rich.
I held my mouth still while I read, afraid that my emotions would tell on my face, which Edmund had told me once was as reactive as a weather vane.
“It is a good thing, Lydia!” he’d protested as I pulled away, my lip quivering as if to prove his point. “Who wouldn’t want a wife incapable of deception?”
He must have regretted that assessment since. Now, each time my anger threatened to overflow, I’d detect the surge deep inside me and see everything that would happen were I to give voice to it. How the waves would envelop me and break over him, the brief calm that would follow before my torrential tears, and when they were all spent, how I’d beg forgiveness crouched beside him or, on the worst occasions, outside his locked study door. That’s how it had been in the early years—passionate arguments followed by fevered reconciliations, even when our disagreements were minor. But since then, petty bickering had become the stuff of daily conversation, and when it mattered, I’d learned to quash my rage and walk away. At least sometimes.
But on the inside, even silly Amelia Thompson still had an effect on me. Her letter set off a chain of emotions as varied as those I’d suffered the only time I’d joined the hunt, anticipation giving way to fear and ecstasy, triumph and disaster hanging in the air as we jumped a hedgerow, when I didn’t know if we would clear the ditch. That must be why the others liked riding—Ned, Bessy, and Edmund when he was younger and fitter—but I had no need to seek out such thrills when I lived through them every day.
Lydia was a manipulative, conniving girl to be planning to meet the actors, even prior to Miss Brontë’s unfortunate dizzy spell. And Mr. Brontë too short to be handsome? What did a girl know of such things?
At the postscript, my anger mingled with a strange mix of righteousness and pity. It determined my co
urse.
“I will go and speak with her,” I said, as if Bessy had made her request only seconds ago.
Quitting the room was a relief. I hadn’t realized how close the fire had made the air or that my face was flushed. I paused in front of the hallway mirror, so that the color could subside. There were slight circles below my eyes, but Marshall had done better with my hair today—not that anyone who cared would see me, unless Mr. Brontë joined us for dinner.
I opened the door to Lydia’s room without knocking. With a rustle of skirts, she stood in front of me before I could determine how she’d been using her solitary hours.
“Mama,” she said as dully as the servants when they called me “madam.”
“I bring a letter for you, Lydia.”
I didn’t offer her an explanation as to why the seal was broken, and she didn’t ask when she took it from me.
Infuriating. Her hands were clasped in front of her, the letter between them. Her long-lashed eyes were downcast.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” I asked, breaking the silence first.
“Very well, Mama.” She sat on the end of her unmade bed.
Her beautiful face was motionless as a sculpture. Was she making an effort to hold herself just so to elude me? Yet I could tell when she reached the final paragraph. She let out a little gasp and her eyes met mine before darting back to the page.
“Thank you, Mama,” she said, her voice wobbling, as if she couldn’t trust herself to say more.
“Harry Thompson is to be married, then?” I asked, casually, lifting her discarded nightdress from the floor and folding it.
“Yes.” A single tear spilled out of one violet eye and tumbled down her cheek.
“Oh, Lydia,” I said, tossing the lace-edged dress aside and sitting beside her. “My love.” Her hair ran like liquid silk through my fingers as I stroked her, soothed her. “Harry Thompson is a handsome man, I know, and heir to Kirby Hall, but there will be others.”
She broke into sobs, wrenched away from me, and threw herself prostrate on the bed.
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