Emily's Secret

by Jill Jones

  Selena poured them each a full mug of tea, then motioned for him to sit on the sofa by the fire. She perched on a nearby stool. “So tell me about your client.”

  “My client? Oh, yes…” That. Behind Selena the paintings beckoned enticingly from the wall. His interest in them was innocent and quite academic. Perhaps if she believed he had a client, she’d let him look at the paintings, his curiosity would be satisfied, and he’d be on his way. No harm done.

  “Well, he is an historian of sorts, and he’s very interested in…unusual artwork.”

  Selena considered that a moment. “I suppose my work could be classified as ‘unusual.’ What other artists’ work has he collected?”

  Alex burned his tongue on a too-hot sip of tea. “Good question,” he replied, flashing her another grin, knowing other women thought it sexy the way his cheeks dimpled when he curved his lips up in a certain manner. Since he knew virtually nothing about the world of art, he would have to rely on his charm to get him through this one. “I honestly don’t know. My client is interested specifically in you, I mean your work, and when he heard I was coming to the U.K., he asked me to look you up. It was a convenient coincidence to find you so close by.”

  “Then you are not a dealer?”

  Alex let out a deep breath. “No, not exactly. I’m an historian. His is just a…special project.”

  “How did he hear about my work?”

  “Uh, well, you know, the usual.”

  Selena did not answer, but only raised one eyebrow. Alex continued, pedaling fast down Deception Lane. “Well, you know, word of mouth. He heard your exhibition at the gallery in London was all the rage.” He tried to think of how Maggie had described it. “He told me that everyone was…hot for your work.”

  Selena laughed. “Hot for my work? Is that what he said?” Then she paused and looked amused. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

  Alex finished his tea and set the mug on the table, determined to accomplish what he’d supposedly come here for and then get the hell out. Selena was far too trusting…and far too beautiful. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “may I take a look around?”

  “I suppose.” Selena led him to the first in the series. “This was the earliest one. I painted it about a year ago.”

  Alex attempted to ignore her closeness, but the essence of the woman threatened to overwhelm him. Mingling with the plastic smell of acrylic paint was a heady woman scent, a disturbing musky, spicy fragrance. Distracted, he had to force his attention to the canvas she was showing him.

  The painting looked more like a cartoon than the ones he had seen in London and Haworth. A muscular man in a torn shirt strode up a hillside, looking back over his shoulder. The monkey was comical, laughing with his upper lip raised to expose his large teeth. The roses grew in a neatly tended garden, and the fire was contained in a hearth. In all, it didn’t have the enchantment of the others, but he wasn’t about to say so. For the part of the painting he was most interested in, the letter, was larger than in the others, and easier to read.

  “What gave you the inspiration for this work?”

  She didn’t reply for a long while, and when she did, her answer was short, almost angry.

  “Who knows where any artist’s ideas spring from? I suppose the background comes from the moors. It looks like that much of the time around here.”

  “I’ve noticed.” Why did she seem so defensive?

  She continued, twisting a strand of hair absently with her fingers. “The other images I guess came from my grandmother. She…she is a Gypsy. One of the last in England to actually travel in a caravan. She has told me lots of stories about her adventures.”

  So the cyclist had been right, he thought, studying the Gypsy images. Then he stepped closer to the canvas and peered at the piece of the letter. “And this?”

  Selena regarded him now with open antipathy. “What?”

  “There seems to be something like this,” Alex continued, pushing his luck, “a scrap of paper, like a letter, in all the paintings I’ve seen.”

  “So?”

  Alex could tell his welcome was wearing thin. “Where did it come from? Does it mean anything?”

  “It’s…just something I made up.”

  Alex perceived she wasn’t telling the truth and wondered why. What was the truth, and why would she want to hide it? He said nothing, but moved to study the painted message up close. This one he could plainly read:

  and

  s o’er, I weary

  ere we were

  all meet our

  ffering

  to

  “Sounds like part of a poem. Do you write poetry?” he asked, his eyes riveted to the word puzzle.

  “No. No, I don’t. I…I may have gotten some of this stuff out of books. I don’t recall. It’s really not important.”

  Alex began to suspect that wherever she had conjured it up, the content of the letter was likely the most important aspect of her work. And for her, disturbing. Curious…

  “I’m really very busy this afternoon, Mr. Hightower,” she said at last, a discernible edge in her voice, as if he were making her very uncomfortable. “Perhaps you could make an appointment with Tom Perkins…”

  “But the paintings are here, not in London,” he pointed out, not wanting to miss the chance to see the rest. That handwriting…“If I could only take a quick look at them all, I’ll be on my way.”

  She stepped out of his way, and he moved swiftly to the next painting. Although more sophisticated than the first, it still showed an artist experimenting, flexing her creative muscles. In it the scrap of paper was caught by the wind and appeared to be blowing away. The lines were neatly painted, in that odd handwriting. This one read:

  fully, sh

  wish only

  put an end

  brought upon

  ust pay for

  y foolish and

  ear not death

  in death I shal

  “It sounds rather morose,” Alex commented.

  “Maybe I was in a bad mood when I wrote it.”

  “Where did you get the handwriting style?”

  He saw Selena’s back straighten, and he knew he’d pushed his queries past the limit.

  “Handwriting is handwriting.”

  His time was running out, and Alex knew it was unlikely he would have such an opportunity again. Still, he must find a way to see each bit of the puzzle.

  “I know you are very busy, but my client is extremely interested,” he said, wondering if technically a person can be his own client. “Would it be possible for me to take some photos of these to send him?”

  Selena seemed to vacillate for a moment, then said, “I suppose that would be all right. What was your client’s name again?”

  Alex felt his stomach lurch. Deception Lane had ended at the edge of a cliff, and he carelessly pedaled right over the precipice. It was too late to save himself.

  “Bonnell,” he replied with the only name that came quickly to mind. “Henry H. Bonnell.”

  Chapter 8

  July 25, 1845

  Shock seems to fall upon shock this summer. Branwell has returned from his post with the Robinsons, and on his heels was a most disastrous letter from his employer, dismissing him and threatening him direly. Branii tells us that he has been carrying on an adulterous affair with Mrs. Robinson, who, he claims, had tempted him into her arms when he in fact tried to resist. Charlotte and Papa are scandalized, but I less so. Who am I to fault Branwell when I myself have known the temptations of a seducer?

  July 31, 1845

  Yesterday was my birthday, and today Anne and I opened our diary papers which we wrote four years ago. How life changes with time! Our scheme to open the Misses Brontë’s Establishment has vanished, and along with it, Charlotte’s dream for our security. (It was never my dream, to be sure!) I am immersed in my writing, which gives me great solace, for although I wrote in my other diary paper—the one we will open three years henc
e—that I was comfortable and undesponding, this is not an accurate picture of my state of mind. I am, in fact, quite desponding, but I must not let the others know. We have enough trouble in this house with Branwell’s madness. I sometimes think if I didn’t have this diary to turn to, I would go mad myself. It helps to put my thoughts on paper so I can sort them out, for many times I find myself confused and betrayed by my own feelings. I turned twenty-seven today. I feel old and I am filled with a desperate, foolish yearning. I should be content. I have my life in order, the way I want it. I no longer have to worry about leaving the Parsonage. I am happy here keeping house and writing. I am free to walk upon the moors as often and as long as I wish. But since Mikel left, the hills seem lonely and desolate. I ache for him to return, although I know he will not, and I am wrong to wish it. Mikel is free, like the wind itself. I knew he must go sometime. If only he had waited long enough to say good-bye. Then I would know that he cared for me and didn’t just take advantage of my sympathies. I waver between grief and anger, and all for what? It is nonsense.

  I know not what will become of us. Branwell is like a madman since his disgraceful dismissal and has taken to drink and laudanum to ease his pain. I wish I could find some way to ease mine…

  Selena watched from the upper window as the figure of the man disappeared into the mists. What an odd encounter, she thought.

  Odd, and troubling.

  She went down the stairs and called to Domino, who, eager to be reinstated into his mistress’s favor, came happily awag. Together they clambered back up to the studio, Domino intent on drying himself by the fire, Selena on quieting her thoughts.

  There was something wrong, something that disturbed her about Alexander Hightower. Perhaps the way he had just appeared at her doorstep out of nowhere. The Yanks were a presumptuous lot, she thought. No legitimate British art dealer would have approached her like that. But then, he’d told her he wasn’t really a dealer, just a personal representative of someone named…what was it? Bardwell? Bonhill? No, Bonnell. Henry H. Bonnell. She wrote it on a notepad so she wouldn’t forget it.

  Selena also made a mental note to mention the incident to Tom Perkins. She had agreed to give Tom the exclusive rights to market her work, except for that one painting in Haworth, because Tom was the best and she needed his help. She didn’t want to risk a misunderstanding that she was trying to sell behind his back.

  Selena went to the fireplace and added a stick of wood to the dwindling flame, her mind still on her mysterious American visitor. How had he known her last name? She should have asked him. She had not used it in years, in fact, not since she’d returned to England from Paris. Wood was her ancestral name, Anglicized from the Welsh Wd. She used it only when a surname was required, such as when she’d enrolled at the École des Beaux Arts.

  When she had become a professional artist, she’d decided to use only her given name, Selena. Tom had liked the idea. Said it added to her mystique. She liked it because it distanced her from memories of her father and the horror of her childhood.

  Something else about the man who called himself Alex Hightower unsettled Selena as well, but it was not easy to isolate. It was his presence, perhaps, the strong sense of his maleness, something she wasn’t used to in her isolated life. While he was taking pictures of her paintings, she had leaned back against the windows, watching him move and bend to get the right camera angle. Even beneath the thick sweater he wore, she could tell that his broad, muscled shoulders tapered to a trim waistline. He crouched to get a certain shot, balancing on his scuffed western-style boots, and she saw his faded jeans stretch snugly across his muscular legs and firm backside. He’d said he was an historian, but he looked more like a cowboy. To her amazement, Selena had caught herself wondering what he looked like in the nude. Disconcerted, she was glad when he finally finished his picture-taking and took his leave.

  Was he really someone’s representative, interested in her art? She had no reason to believe otherwise. Yet his overt curiosity about the letter made her uncomfortable. Was that what his client found so unusual about her work? If so, she thought cynically, she wished he’d buy the whole damned bunch so she wouldn’t have to look at them again.

  She’d even throw in the letter!

  She would, that is, if she had it. The torn pieces would have to do. And at that thought, those torn pieces reclaimed her, and she returned to the smaller room of the studio where a half-finished painting awaited her. She attempted to pick up where she left off when she’d heard Domino’s demanding alarum, but instead of finishing the image of the roses, she began to draw the figure of a man.

  August 21, 1845

  I am writing today as I sit upon the moors, here where I come so often of late, to the ravine along the back hill. I know in my mind it is foolish to torture myself so, but I cannot seem to stay away. It is beautiful here, and peaceful. And free. I like to sit on the large rock by the beck and just think about what it means to be free—truly free, like Mikel. Earlier I spotted a lone hawk soaring high above me. To fly must be the greatest freedom of all. While I watched, I saw the creature suddenly fold its wings and dive headlong toward the earth, then stop in time to regain control, snatch its prey, and climb once again. That freedom! That control! Would that they were mine in my own life.

  Freedom and control. They must go together, for one without the other can spell disaster. I think of poor Hero, a hawk like this other, who somehow lost control and injured his wing. I found him and saved his life, but he could never fly freely again. I suppose Mikel was injured because he lost control, too, when the horse threw him off. The difference is that Mikel was able to regain his freedom where Hero could not.

  And what about me? Wherein lies my freedom? I am filled with control—I scarcely know anything else. I am controlled by my station in life, the limitations of being a woman, my lack of money. And yet, I am not without freedom. I am free when I walk alone here on the moors. I am free when I think and when I write. I am free because I share my soul with only a few, and then not all of it. I suppose I must be content with inner freedom, for it would appear that outer controls will prevent me from having the kind of freedom Mikel knows.

  How I long for it, though! How I long to release these bonds and fly free as the hawk. And if I could, I would soar across the Welsh mountains and search far and wide until I found Mikel again. I would never give up until I was with him once more. But then—what would that bring? If he loved me, perhaps a fleeting happiness. But if this were so, he would not have deserted me the way he did. And so there would only be disappointment if I found him again. (He has left me the same as Fernando left his sweetheart. Did Mikel have an Augusta waiting for him?)

  I must take heart in this. It is far sweeter—the anticipation of what might be—than the fulfillment of the dream. The idea is the freedom, while the attainment is the control.

  The phone in the Parsonage Library rang shrilly, shattering the contented quietness of the room. Alex jumped. He heard the librarian speak softly into the receiver, and then, to his surprise, call him to the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, love. It’s Maggie. How is your project coming along?”

  Alex rolled his eyes. Until this moment he had successfully banished all thoughts of Maggie Flynn for days. “Fine. Just fine,” he answered, irritated. “What’s up?”

  “You won’t believe this. The other day I got a call from Eleanor Bates. You might not remember her, but she is the elderly woman you met on the train.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “She told me. She’s very excited about our debate, you know.”

  “So she said. Who is she anyway?”

  “Only one of the most important philanthropists in all of England. Her husband left her quite a bit of money, and rumor has it she’s a whiz at investments. She endowed a chair in English Literature at the University of Leeds and is an absolute Brontë fanatic. Quite a colorful old lady. I heard that she was a spy during the w
ar.”

  Somehow this didn’t surprise Alex. Eleanor Bates, it appeared, was a woman of many talents. He made no comment, however, but waited for Maggie to continue, which she did after a moment of silence on the line.

  “The reason she called me was to invite me to a party her daughter and son-in-law are giving at Harrington House on the seventeenth. Apparently her daughter married quite well. Her husband is a member of Parliament, and Elizabeth, that’s her name, has her own business. Trades in art and antiques and the like.”

  Like Henry H. Bonnell? Alex thought sardonically.

  Maggie continued. “They are entertaining a variety of people that night apparently. Business associates, personal friends, even some celebrities. Which I guess in a way is where we fit in. In her circle at the university, we seem to be the main event later this summer. Anyway, she wanted me to call and invite you to come with me.”

  Here she faltered. Then, after a telling pause, her voice not so strong as before, she asked, “Would you like to do that?”

  Alex ran his fingers through his hair. It was the last thing he wanted to do. He hated formal occasions. He didn’t want to be put on display by Eleanor Bates or anyone else. And he had no intention of being Maggie’s date anywhere, anytime, ever again.

  “Look Maggie, I’m sorry, but I think I’m busy that evening. But thanks anyway. And please tell Mrs. Bates thanks for the invitation.”

  “Oh, come on, Alex. Look, I know things aren’t the same between us as they used to be. But we’re still friends, aren’t we? I don’t know exactly what went wrong, but whatever it was, I’m willing to forgive and forget if you are.”

  Maggie’s attempt at reconciliation was almost wheedling, and Alex suddenly wished she hadn’t tried. It was weak, out of character, unless, he considered, it was just another of her manipulative ploys.