Emily's Secret

by Jill Jones

  His eyes were also dark, gray perhaps, although it was hard to discern their exact color from across the room. Heavy dark brows slashed across his tanned face, drawn together at the moment in a tense frown. His nose was slender but nicely formed. His lips were generous. A shadow of a beard outlined a strong jaw.

  He was, to Selena’s artist’s eye, decidedly handsome.

  A black mackintosh covered most of the rest of him, but it outlined broad, muscular shoulders. He was several inches taller than the woman, perhaps almost six feet in height.

  She observed him massage his temples and wondered if he was ill. She might be ill, too, she thought wickedly, if she had to endure the presence of that woman. An odd pair, she concluded, taking down a painting at last. But perhaps it was the oddity of Tom’s customers that had made her show such a success.

  The following morning the rain was gone, and so was Alex’s jet lag. Fourteen hours of sound sleep after he finally managed to extricate himself from Maggie did the trick, and he awoke feeling refreshed and energized. He took a vigorous jog through the quiet park across the street from the hotel, did some push-ups, and indulged in a full English breakfast. Looking out of the third floor window down into the park, he considered staying in London for another day. He felt short-changed at having had to make such an abbreviated visit to a city so enriched with history, but the clock was ticking. He needed to get to Haworth and begin his work in earnest. Besides, London and Maggie were somehow synonymous to him now, and he was ready to leave them both behind for a while.

  An hour later he boarded a train for Leeds.

  England was pretty in early summer, decked out in blooming hedges and wildflowers which crept to the very edges of the track as the train made its way out of London’s suburbs. The population thinned and the engine gathered speed, propelling the train at well over one hundred miles an hour through villages and farmland. He stared out at the passing fields where brilliant yellow rapeseed, cultivated to make cooking oil, covered acres of farmland like buttery snow. Cottages with thatched roofs dotted the landscape, along with occasional herds of dairy cows and sheep. It seemed satisfyingly pastoral, proper for Britain.

  The train itself was a study in clean efficiency. The upholstery appeared new and fresh, covering the comfortable seats, and Alex noted appreciatively how much more leg room he had than on the airplane. He had selected one of the seats at the rear of the carriage which faced a table, hoping to get a little work done on the journey. Across the aisle at another table a young couple munched noisily on plough-boy sandwiches purchased at the station. An elderly woman sat at their table, facing him, doing a crossword puzzle.

  Alex reached into his briefcase and retrieved a dog-eared copy of a slim paperback, finding it hard to believe that in all his years as a Brontë scholar he had never made this trip. The tiny village of Haworth, nestled on the edge of the West Yorkshire moors, was the source of it all—the poetry and novels they’d written and the myths and legends that surrounded the remarkable Brontë family, all of which had encompassed a large part of his career in academe.

  Alex was aware that to some, particularly his father, his career choice was less than macho. A star athlete in high school, he could have gone to college on a baseball scholarship that had been offered to him by a nearby sports-oriented school. Or, had he followed his father’s desires, he could have entered medical school.

  But from an early age, Alex had been drawn to the written word. An avid reader, his boyhood adventures had been played out with the likes of Robinson Crusoe, Tom Sawyer, and Huck Finn. He had gone on the Trail of the Lost Tribe with Tom Stetson, and traveled the world in the Landmark series. He had scared himself thoroughly with The Tell-Tale Heart and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and found heroes to worship in biographies written for young boys. For Alex, nothing was more exciting than a good book, and he’d never given a damn what others thought about his literary pursuits.

  It wasn’t until high school, however, that he’d met the most fascinating hero he’d encountered on the printed page—Heathcliff. Passionate. Strong. Cruel. Frightening. Mad. But above all, unforgettable. From that first introduction, Alex’s imagination had been held hostage by this darkly brooding, inexplicable character, and as Alex matured and began to consider career options, Heathcliff’s vote had counted more heavily than either a baseball scholarship or his father’s dreams for his son.

  Alex contemplated the book in his hands, a tattered copy of Wuthering Heights, thinking about the supposedly celibate, reclusive authoress who had created the story and its dark hero, and in so doing, seemingly had laid claim on Alexander Hightower’s soul.

  Emily Brontë and her family had moved into the Parsonage at Haworth when her father, Patrick, an eccentric Evangelical preacher, became curate there in 1820. She was just under two years old at the time, and she lived in that same house, except for a few unhappy interludes away at various schools, until she died there twenty-eight years later. Hers had been a short and strangely isolated life, but one that had spawned remarkable poetry and this single volatile novel.

  He turned the premise of his quest over again in his mind. Had Emily ended her life on purpose? If so, why? Wuthering Heights had only been out a year, published at the same time as her younger sister’s novel, Agnes Grey, and just two months after Charlotte’s hit, Jane Eyre. The three sisters, writing under masculine pseudonyms to overcome the sexual bias against women writers in their day, had a promising future as novelists to look forward to. Was the notoriety more than the reclusive Emily could bear?

  Alex thought not.

  Although Charlotte and Anne eventually came out of the closet and revealed their true feminine identities, Emily remained cloistered in the Parsonage, protecting her privacy solidly behind her pen name, Ellis Bell.

  It was true that once Charlotte had had to coax Emily into allowing her poems to be published, but after that, Emily had written Wuthering Heights and included it willingly in submissions of all their work made to London publishing houses. It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to see her work in print.

  And although some reviewers were shocked by the content and characters of Wuthering Heights, Emily should have been gratified by the fact that the novel was popular with many readers. Apparently, Alex continued his line of thinking, Emily had planned to write another novel, perhaps had even started on it, according to a letter written to “Ellis Bell” from “his” publisher, T. C. Newby, early in 1848.

  With so much to live for, why would she want to die? This was the stubborn issue Maggie would use against him in the debate. And it was a valid one. If Emily Brontë did commit suicide, her reasons must have been enormous to outweigh a promising career as a writer.

  For, next to nature and the moors, Emily loved writing best.

  Maybe she was overcome with grief for Branwell. The two had been close all their lives, although toward the end of his, Branwell had become violently self-destructive and a heavy burden on his family, especially his doting sister Emily.

  Had the physical exertion of hauling her drunken, consumptive brother up the stairs every night broken her health just as watching his moral degradation had broken her heart? Had he depleted her resources so seriously that she just gave up?

  Again, Alex thought not.

  Because Emily Brontë had a will of iron. And there was no doubt she’d used that will to control the events and circumstances of her life. Alex recalled that when she was unhappy at being sent away to school, Emily had simply stopped eating and literally made herself sick so she would be allowed to come home. Another time, with stoic resolution, she had cauterized a wound on her own body with a hot iron after being bitten while breaking up a dog fight.

  No, Alex believed Emily Brontë had been perfectly capable of controlling anything about her life she chose…including her death.

  In fact, she’d illustrated this possibility in her novel. He thumbed through the text of Wuthering Heights to the scene just prior to the heroine’s death. Cat
herine Linton, in an effort to control the two men who loved her, had willed herself almost into her deathbed. However psychotic this might sound to a modern-day reader, Alex thought, to Emily it might have been a very realistic way out of an unresolvable situation. He read:

  …the thing that irks me most is this shattered prison, after all. I’m tired, tired of being enclosed here. I’m wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, but really with it, and in it. Nelly, you think you are better and more fortunate than I, in full health and strength; you are sorry for me—very soon that will be altered. I shall be sorry for you. I shall be incomparably beyond and above you all.

  Was this Catherine Linton speaking, Alex wondered, or Emily Brontë? Had she written this purely as fiction, or had she ideas of willing her own final exit?

  Either way, Alex was convinced that in the winter of 1848, Emily Brontë made a decision to die and used her implacable will to control her life to the very end.

  All he needed now was proof.

  Out of the corner of his eye Alex saw the old woman across the aisle lay her crossword aside, and then he realized uncomfortably that she had turned her attention fully and unabashedly upon him.

  Involuntarily, he looked up at her, and when he did, he found himself peering into a pair of faded blue eyes, enormous behind thick-lensed glasses. They belonged to a feminine face that had surely weathered more than eighty years and yet managed to maintain a certain beauty. The nearly translucent skin was rouged at the cheekbones, and a bright lipstick seeped through deep crevasses that lined the ancient lips. She was dressed in a chocolate-colored suit trimmed in pink, and a pink blouse with a large bow tie at the neck.

  Alex nodded at her and smiled slightly, then tried to return to his book. He could feel her staring at him, however, reminding him of a certain feared English teacher in junior high school.

  “I couldn’t help but notice what you were reading.” Her surprisingly strong voice made its way across the aisle and into his consciousness.

  Alex looked at her blankly.

  “Wuthering Heights,” she elaborated with a pleased smile. “A classic. A real classic. It’s so refreshing to see a young person reading something besides those trashy novels they publish these days.”

  He started to point out that lots of good books were published as well these days, but before he could say anything, she continued. “Are you going to Haworth?”

  Her question caught him off guard. “Uh, yes ma’am.”

  “I thought so, you being a Brontë reader and all. Will you be there for the meeting?”

  He was having trouble following her. “Meeting?”

  “The AGM. Brontë Society. I go every year. I’ve been a member since just after the war.”

  Alex shook his head. He didn’t ask what AGM stood for, because he didn’t care to encourage her to continue. The Brontë Society, he knew, fulfilled a valuable function in preserving the Brontë heritage, but he wanted no part of the politics that were usually associated with such groups. “No, I’m going strictly for research.”

  “Too bad. We could use some new blood,” she said bluntly, then shifted her line of questioning. “What are you investigating?”

  Alex was in no mood to humor what he perceived to be a dilettante. “Oh, the usual. Americans don’t get much chance to look at their original work.”

  “Emily’s my favorite,” the old woman pressed on. “That Wuthering Heights. Don’t you know it was scandalous in its day? The grandmother of all shockers. Makes you wonder what that girl was like, doesn’t it?”

  Alex nodded, amused. But he noted gratefully that the train had at last reached the station in Leeds, precluding further conversation.

  He waited before leaving his seat, allowing the old woman to go ahead of him. He retrieved his heavy traveling bag from the luggage storage area, but when he got off the train, he found the woman waiting for him.

  “That’ll be your track over there.” She motioned in the direction of the next platform. “The train to Haworth leaves in twenty minutes.”

  Together they started walking toward the station. “I’m Eleanor Bates, by the way,” she said, stopping and extending her hand.

  Politely, Alex shook it. “Dr. Alexander Hightower.”

  “Hightower!” The old eyes widened. “I should have known it. You’re the gentleman who’ll be facing off against Maggie Flynn later this summer at the university. The one who thinks Emily killed herself.”

  Alex felt the blood rise to his face. How had the likes of Eleanor Bates heard about that? “Yes. Uh, yes, that’s true.”

  Eleanor was visibly excited. “I can’t wait for that one. I go to them all, you know. There are lots of Brontë symposia here in Leeds. I heard Maggie Flynn once. What a ball of fire!”

  His guts contracted. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Bates,” he said, trying to graciously extricate himself from her enraptured presence.

  “It’s Ms. Bates. Not married, you see. Husband died in ‘fifty-five, and I never found another one I liked as well. But I’m too old to be called Miss. I was glad when that Ms. thing came along.”

  Alex nodded, attempting to keep a straight face. “Well, then, Ms. Bates, perhaps we will meet again.” He turned and walked briskly toward his waiting train, wondering just exactly what he’d gotten himself into in agreeing to this debate.

  June 16, 1845

  Mikel’s strength is amazing. His leg is not mended, yet he manages to move with some agility using his arms and his good leg. He is restless and angry with himself over his predicament, for he will not be able to bring home the money this year he needs for his family. He trades in horses he captures wild on the moors and breaks before taking them to market in his home country. He says he comes each summer to the moors, but has never been this far. His speech is strange to my ear. He says he comes from over the Welsh mountains.

  He is unlike the ruddy English in the village. His skin is like bronze from the hours he spends in the open sun. His eyes are large and dark, and his dark hair falls to his shoulders. He wears a kerchief tied around his neck, and his chest is exposed beneath his open (and very dirty!) shirt. His face is strong, with a long nose and craggy cheekbones. He is quite handsome, in a rough way. He speaks little, and although I know he is grateful for my help, he sends me away.

  It is my own feelings that I find most strange when I think of Mikel. I am frightened of him and yet attracted to him. I know nothing about him. He could be a murderer or at the very least a thief. I think not, however. His eyes are soft when he speaks of his home and his family, although he has told me little. Such are not the eyes of a felon. Or is that only my wish? I know I am starting to live each day in anxious anticipation of the time when I can go for a long walk on the moors. Charlotte is cross with me because I want to go alone, but I don’t care. I will nurse Mikel until he is well enough to return to his home. He will be my secret…from them all.

  A flash of black and white met Selena’s eyes as her dog cleared the corner of the old stone farmhouse and barked eagerly at the approaching vehicle. Selena grinned and rolled down the window. “Get back, Domino. Scoot!” With care not to run over the tail-wagging animal, she maneuvered the rear of the Land Rover close to the door of the barn behind the farmhouse.

  “Hey, boy,” she laughed. “Did you miss me?” She knelt and hugged and petted the dog, happily receiving its wet licks on her cheeks. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Calm down now.”

  Selena often wondered what she would have done for companionship if Domino hadn’t shown up. Hers was a solitary and sometimes lonely life. She didn’t make friends easily, never had. She knew the postman and the butcher at the market and a few others in town. But no one she could call a real friend.

  And her work demanded a great deal of her time and energy, preventing her from having much of a social life even if she’d been so inclined. So when the stray border collie had wandered down the moors and take
n up residence on her back step, she was pleased to welcome such a roommate.

  She’d inquired around the area, trying to locate his owner, but no one stepped forward to claim the ragged canine, who wasted no time in making himself quite at home. Domino must have put the word out to his homeless friends, because shortly thereafter Peaches arrived, followed by Hizzonor, two bedraggled, scrawny cats who now likely lazed fatly in the noon sunshine upstairs, wondering when their dinner bowls would be refilled.

  Selena stood up and brushed her hands together, then opened the back door of the vehicle and pulled a wooden-clad parcel from among the many that were tightly packed inside. Might as well carry one of these upstairs as I go, she thought, eager to check on her cats.

  The old wooden steps creaked beneath her feet as she ascended to what once was the loft of the barn. At the top of the stairs she lowered the heavy crate with an audible groan and opened the inner door that led from the stairwell into the two-room studio. Even though it was somewhat stark and still in need of many more repairs, the studio was home, and she was glad to be back.

  Selena had moved here shortly after returning from her studies abroad. She could have chosen to stay in London, closer to the community of British artists, but she wanted to be near her aging grandmother, who at the time still lived in the tiny village of Stanbury, in the house where Selena had grown up.

  But the old woman had hired a live-in aide in Selena’s absence, leaving no room for her when she returned. It was just as well, for Selena was ready to be on her own. She needed solitude, as well as space for a studio if she was going to try to make a living in earnest as an artist.

  With Matka’s help, she had purchased the small farm from the heirs of the farmer who had died a decade earlier. The abandoned property was like so many others in the vicinity—aging, weather-beaten, run-down. And it was for sale cheap. With a lot of hard work and some borrowed money, she had managed to convert the loft of the barn into a relatively comfortable studio, but the house was still barely habitable. She kept her clothes in the house, and her groceries, but spent little time there.