by Jill Jones
“Wait!” he called. “Wait for me!”
This time she didn’t move, but observed him from her lofty crest. He climbed quickly now, and he grew tired from the exertion. “Wait. Don’t go,” he panted. “I’m almost there.” But when he got there, she was gone. At the top of the craggy hillside he saw only more craggy hillside covered with brown grass and dark heather.
Looking across the moors, he could make out the dark shape of Top Withens. Roofless, the gray stone walls of the ruin offered only partial protection from the wind, but the storm was growing menacing, and Alex decided to make for the only shelter in sight. Beneath his feet there appeared large slabs of the local sandstone, suddenly paving the way toward his destination. In only moments he was standing next to the ruin, wondering how he got there so quickly. It had taken hours when he’d hiked here before.
The figure of the woman stood on the other side of the wall, next to the bent and twisted skeleton of a tree. “There you are,” he said, as if he’d caught up with an old friend.
“Leave me in peace.” The words were soft, feminine, and yet the command was imperative.
“But you know I can’t do that.”
“You must,” the voice said, the head never turning to face him.
Alex took a step closer, and the figure vanished. “Who are you?” he whispered.
From behind him came a surprising reply. “I am who you want me to be.”
Alex spun around, and there she stood, half hidden behind one wall of the old farmhouse. “Are you Emily?”
“I am who you want me to be,” she repeated. “But you must go now.”
“No. I can’t go. I must talk to you. I have questions. I have so many questions.”
“Only you can answer your questions.”
“I can’t let you go.”
“Why not?”
Alex’s chest contracted painfully. Blood raced through his veins, making him dizzy. “Because…” He searched for a reason that would convince her to stay. “Because,” he said at last, taking a deep breath to steady himself, “I love you.”
The rush of the storm’s wind filled the silence that fell between them. Then the figure stepped from behind the wall. The plain brown garment was transformed into a flowing blue gown that floated like gossamer in the breeze. The woman removed the bonnet, letting loose a mass of blue-black hair to dance in the wind. She looked up and smiled at him through obsidian eyes. And then she vanished into the mists.
“Don’t go! Wait!” Alex called out again. “You can’t go. I love you. I love you…
“…I love you.”
The sound of his own voice awakened him, and Alex bolted upright in his bed, in the small flat overlooking Main Street, in Haworth, West Yorkshire, England, Planet Earth. His skin was clammy, and his hands trembled. Beside him on the nightstand was a half-empty bottle of brandy, and on the still-made bed lay the copy of the Brontë Society Transactions he had been studying before he nodded off.
He swung his feet to the floor and rubbed his eyes, breathing hard, feeling as if he had actually chased Emily to Top Withens.
Emily.
Was that what the dream was all about? Was his subconscious telling him he should give up his search for clues about her death? But even as the fragile details of the dream began to disintegrate in his memory, he knew there was more, much more to it than that. Alex switched off the small lamp by the bed and lay back against the pillows.
Outside, the wind shrieked in the midnight darkness.
October 16, 1845
My hands shake with rage as I write this. In all likelihood, it will prove unreadable. And just as well so! For snooping eyes won’t be able to repeat their invasion of my private thoughts as Charlotte has so wantonly done on this day. It is my fault, I suppose, for I carelessly left my desk open on the dining room table. But my sister knows better than to peruse uninvited any material there.
My poems have been desecrated by her thoughtless rummaging! My most private moments captured from the world within have been exposed to her prying eyes. (Thank God she did not find this diary as well. I must burn it soon.)
Not only did she read my words, she had the audacity to comment upon them! Hers were words of high praise, but I question their sincerity. She might have spoken only to quell my flaming anger. I begged her to be still, but she would not, and now she is raving on about some fool scheme to publish these and other poems she and Anne have written. Charlotte has such grandiose ideas! First the Misses Brontës Establishment, and now this. As if any reader would buy words penned by women. It matters not. My words are not for sale.
Faint rays of early morning sun struggled through the thick glass in Selena’s rustic kitchen window. Outside, the wind blew the tall spires of grass on the hillside like waves upon a brown sea.
Restless. Restless.
Going to the stove, she poured herself a third cup of coffee, knowing as she did it would unsteady her hand for work. What did it matter? she thought sullenly. She no longer cared if what she painted was any good. She just had to get through it. Four more. Then she would have captured that poor woman’s entire wretched note on canvas. Perhaps then it would be over and she could move on with her work and her career.
But this morning her career was not the cause of her ennui.
Selena pulled the heavy woolen shawl closer around her shoulders and warmed her fingers on the hot coffee mug. She sat down heavily in one of two creaky chairs at the rough wooden table. Only then did she pick up the invitation again. She ran her slender fingers across the creamy and very proper stationery, embossed with a crest.
Another invitation to an elite social affair.
Why? What was with these people? They didn’t know her; they only knew of her. It was the third invitation of this kind she’d received since her opening at the Perkins Galleries. The first she had accepted and had attended—that dreadful ordeal at Moorehead. The second was in Cornwall, an easy one to decline because of the distance. But this one…this one was virtually in her dooryard. At Harrington House, just north of Leeds.
She knew Tom meant well when he urged his well-to-do friends to include her on their invitation lists. He ran with all the right people, and he was determined to use his connections to advance her career, to their mutual profit. But she wished he’d leave her out of the social scene. She wasn’t good at it. The thought of entering a room filled with gushing, bejeweled women and prurient, predatory men filled her with dread. The only face she would know among hundreds would be Tom’s.
And that left her with another problem.
She knew Tom Perkins had more on his mind than her career when he wangled these invitations for her. At first she’d thought nothing of it when he offered to escort her to the affair at Moorehead. And he’d been the perfect gentleman there, going about his role as her agent, steering her from one wealthy potential client to another.
But later, when he was supposed to take her back to her hotel, he’d driven instead to his town house in one of London’s more affluent neighborhoods, insisting she come in for a nightcap. She’d been genuinely about to collapse from exhaustion after playing the part of budding-star-artist all evening, and only because she felt so miserable had she been able to convince him to take her home without offending him with a turndown of sexual favors.
It was a fine and most uncomfortable line she had to draw with Tom. She had the talent to become a world-class artist, or so he had told her. And he’d also told her she needed him to make it happen.
Now, she was beginning to doubt him on both scores.
Would her “talent” disappear when she finally forced the series from hell out of her life? Did she really have talent to begin with, or was Tom just using that to try to seduce her? She suddenly wondered how many other young female artists he had made the same promise to, and she felt slightly nauseous.
Selena picked up the other letter that lay on the table, the one that had accompanied the formal invitation. Both had arrived inside
a brown shipping box which was also in front of her. Tom wrote:
I know you are not keen on these affairs, but darling, you really must attend this one with me. Simply everyone will be there, and I needn’t remind you of the sales we generated from our last soirée. Just so you will have no excuses, I took the liberty of buying you the perfect dress for the occasion. You will turn every head, trust me. You will be stunning, but then, you always are.
I plan to arrive in Stanbury no later than noon on Saturday, and I will come for you directly. We have several matters to discuss, and it would be my privilege to take you to lunch. Please do be a love and make arrangements for me for that night. Nothing fancy needed. In fact, a blanket on your sofa would do.
And now I must get back to work. See you on the seventeenth.
Much love, Tom.
P.S. How is your work progressing? I do hope you will have some new, exciting things to show me when I am there.
P.P.S. When are you going to install a telephone? I would find it immensely easier to communicate if I could ring you. Hugs. T.P.
Selena cringed. A blanket on her sofa indeed. Tom hadn’t been to the farmhouse yet. He didn’t know that a blanket on the sofa was her bed. If he wanted to stay over, he’d have to take the bed in the house. There was no hot water in the house, and the window in the bedroom was cracked, making it rather breezy for sleeping. She would find him lodging in town. If she decided to go to the affair with him.
Reluctantly, she removed the dress from the package. If nothing else, Tom had impeccable taste. It was a statement of simple elegance, a full-length gown of rich sapphire silk, a color Selena favored and that enhanced the highlights in her hair. It was unadorned, letting the sumptuous fabric take center stage.
In short, it was exquisite.
Damn it, she thought, wishing he’d sent something really ugly that would be easier to turn down. When she looked inside to check the size, the designer label did not escape her notice. The dress must have cost hundreds.
Holding the garment against her, she went into the bedroom and laid it carefully on the bed. Shivering in the chill of early morning which blew in freely through the cracked windowpane, she removed the shawl and the warm flannel nightshirt she wore. Without wasting time with undergarments, she slipped the dress over her head, hoping it wouldn’t fit.
But it did. Perfectly. And it felt wonderful.
She moved across the bedroom to the faded full-length framed mirror that stood on carved wooden claws in one corner. Tom was right, she thought, not vainly, but seeing herself through objective eyes. She was stunning. Or at least the dress was. The neckline was cut low in front, and square, and it revealed just enough of the softly rounded tops of her breasts to show them off enticingly to the leering eyes of any prospective male clients Tom might steer her way. Her nipples, standing erect in the cold room, added another erotic feature beneath the silken fabric. The bodice fit snugly, too snugly, she realized, to accommodate underwear should she want to wear it. It showed off her slender waistline, then fell into a flowing bias-cut skirt which clung to her thighs when she walked.
She turned around and peered at herself over her shoulder, only to find the back as suggestive as the front. Although it fastened across the top of her shoulders, the rest was cut out in an elongated rectangle that dropped from shoulder to waist to reveal the smooth skin of her entire back. The designer, she noted, had succeeded in draping the fabric to display the wearer’s derriere most appealingly. Yes, Tom was right. She would turn every head, which was exactly what he wanted. She was, after all, his merchandise, and he aimed to show it off to his advantage.
The wave of nausea she’d felt earlier surged again.
The dress was lovely, but it wasn’t her. She didn’t want to accept it. She didn’t want to wear it. She didn’t even want to go to the damned affair. Wishing she had never become so enmeshed in the sale of her art that she found herself in this predicament, Selena removed the dress and laid it gently back on the bed. She would box it up and return it to Tom this afternoon. Keeping it would only encourage him in his misguided quest after her body. She’d simply have to find something else to wear.
Hastily she donned an old pair of denims and a sweater and hurried back to the kitchen, where she warmed her now-frigid coffee in the small microwave. She picked up the box to take it into the bedroom and felt something shift inside it. Opening one flap, she discovered a small but heavy parcel wrapped in white tissue. She removed the tape holding it together and drew her breath in sharply when she unwrapped the golden necklace within.
Laying it flat on the palm of her hand, Selena was spellbound by the sheer beauty of the piece. The golden filigree was laced daintily into a triangular-shaped pattern and sparkled with brilliant rubies and sapphires. In a second packet she found earrings to match, along with a card from the Perkins Galleries on which the sender had written: “The pièce de résistance.”
Selena softened a bit in her attitude toward Tom. She knew he must have remembered how out of place she felt at Moorehead, Selena the starving artist in her plain Jane dress and no glitter, and she appreciated his attempt to groom her, Pygmalion-style, for the next event. But that still didn’t mean she would keep his gift.
Rewrapping the jewelry and putting it back in the box, she took her hot coffee and returned to the bedroom. There, she opened the doors to the old armoire that held what could scarcely be called a wardrobe. Until recently she hadn’t needed dressy clothing, and she wore mostly knitted tops and leggings or denims to work in. She had a single dress that at one time she might have thought appropriate for the occasion, but it was the same one she’d worn to Moorehead, only to feel shabby against the opulence of the other guests.
She sighed and sat down heavily on the bed, weighing her options. She could keep the dress, go to the party, and deal with Tom’s advances later; or return the dress, decline the invitation, and face the possibility that Tom Perkins, the most influential art dealer in London, would refuse to promote her work further.
Either way, she thought gloomily, she would probably destroy her future with the Perkins Galleries. Her gloom changed to anger at the thought. No male artist would find himself so compromised. Perhaps that’s why so few female artists made it to the top. Maybe they didn’t want to sleep their way up.
Well, she wasn’t going to sleep with Tom Perkins or anyone else. She’d find another dealer, someone who wanted her work more than her body. Maybe that American who’d showed up on her doorstep so unexpectedly.
What had become of him? she wondered. Had his client in the States seen the photos he’d taken? Did he like her work? Maybe she ought to drive into Haworth and try to locate him. What did he say his name was? Alex something. She wished she wasn’t so bad with names. Hickton. Highton. Damn, she didn’t even get his card. It didn’t matter. Haworth was a little town. She’d find him.
With a slow smile, Selena picked up the shimmering blue dress, folded it carefully, and repacked it for shipping.
There were always options, Tom.
Always.
Chapter 10
Harrington House glowed in the late evening sun like an ornate, golden treasure chest hidden by some wealthy giant amidst lush parklands, gardens, and woods. The road wound toward it through fields so green that if they were faithfully reproduced on canvas at the hands of an artist, the work would be criticized as being unrealistically verdant. The sky was laced with high white clouds blushed with tints of rose and amber, and the air was heavy and sweet with the smells of summer in full bloom.
Alex downshifted the powerful sports car as he rounded the last curve and entered the gates to the Harrington estate. When he’d accepted Eleanor Bates’s offer of the use of one of her cars for the duration of his stay in England, he didn’t realize she meant a vintage Jaguar XK140. The sleek black convertible had belonged to her husband, who had purchased it shortly before his death. It had been specially made for him with a red leather interior, and when he’d died, E
leanor had been unable to bring herself to sell it, but instead kept it covered in the garage, driving it only to have its engine checked once a year. It was in mint condition. “It needs to be driven,” she’d insisted. “You would be doing me a great favor.”
Alex knew who was doing a favor for whom, but he didn’t argue the point as he slid into the rich leather seat and ran his fingers over the steering wheel. He’d been nervous at first to be responsible for such a vehicle, but it had taken only an afternoon on the roads around Haworth for him to get used to driving on the left-hand side with a gearshift that was the exact opposite of those on American cars. He’d found the challenge exhilarating.
The only thing missing was a beautiful woman in the seat beside him.
He’d driven past Bridgeton Lane several times, considering the possibilities, but when he’d finally turned down the small road, he’d seen that the Land Rover wasn’t in the driveway and the dog was on the doorstep, so he hadn’t stopped.
Approaching Harrington House, he drove slowly up the pristinely manicured lane, having difficulty conceiving that this once was a single-family dwelling. It looked like an enormous, elegant hotel, a relic of bygone splendor. But Eleanor had told him that the fifth Earl of Harrington and his wife had lived here until his death in 1966. Today, she’d explained, it was operated by a trust as one of England’s “treasure houses,” and from Alex’s perspective, it certainly fit the description.
Handing the Jag over to the parking attendant, Alex determined to make the best of the situation in which he found himself. Even though he hated affairs such as this, the drive over the rolling hills of Yorkshire had been worth the boredom he expected over the next several hours while he made small talk with the country’s finest. But if Eleanor was telling him the truth, that many of these socialites were also scholars and Brontë Society members who would be attending the debate, it wouldn’t hurt, he decided, to turn on the charm.
