Emily's Secret

by Jill Jones

  He could use some fans in his corner.

  He took a deep breath, straightened his bow tie and ran his fingers through his hair. Before his eyes, a queue of Rolls Royces, Mercedes, BMWs, and Jaguars discharged gentlemen in formal attire and ladies dressed in flowing gowns and jewels. He knew no one, although several people, particularly women, smiled at him warmly as they passed him on their way up the front steps. He was about to join the throng moving inside when a flash of copper caught his eye.

  Appalled, he watched Maggie Flynn emerge from the passenger side of a black Mercedes. She smoothed her hair, waiting for the man she was with to speak to the attendant. It took him only an instant to figure he’d been set up. But by whom?

  Maggie could be an incorrigible manipulator, but this was astonishing. Had she deliberately lied to Eleanor Bates that she was not coming? Surely she would never commit such a social faux pas. And it was embarrassingly egotistical to think she would go to such extremes to get him there, Alex thought.

  Or had the two of them, Maggie and Eleanor, conspired to get him to change his mind about coming? Was Eleanor trying to orchestrate some pre-debate drama at this shindig?

  Whatever had transpired, Alex was seething. He stood like a stone and watched as the tall redhead approached, not yet seeing him. She wore a black dress, long and tightly fitted, with a slit up one leg. High up. She would be the envy of all the women and capture the eye of every man, no doubt.

  Not until she reached the first step did Maggie look up. She was smiling and talking animatedly to the man who escorted her. But when she saw Alex, the smile froze solidly on her lips. Green eyes widened momentarily in genuine surprise at seeing him there, then flashed in anger.

  “Good evening, Alex,” she said curtly.

  He could almost see her lip curl as she brushed past him in a cloud of familiar perfume.

  Alex nodded mechanically, trying to understand how this could have happened. Had Maggie, like himself, simply changed her mind? Or had she been manipulated as well by Eleanor Bates? What was the old woman up to? Dismayed, Alex was ready to turn around and head back to Haworth and the comfort of his bed and a good book when Eleanor Bates’s voice resounded in his ear.

  “There you are, my dear man. Are you getting along with the car? Come. Come in. I have so many people waiting to meet you.”

  “Ms. Bates, I think—”

  “I’ve asked you to call me Eleanor. Please. Now do come.”

  “You told me Maggie Flynn had declined the invitation.” His voice was coldly accusing.

  “Did I? Oh, dear. No, no, she was looking forward to coming. I must be getting forgetful in my old age.” She turned a wrinkled but sunny smile on him. “Do say you will forgive me. I’m sure you will not have to engage her in conversation unless you choose to. There are hundreds of people here, after all.”

  Alex glared at her, but she ignored him. Slipping her hand under his elbow, she maneuvered him skillfully up the crowded steps and into the grand entranceway. Around him, ladies in silks and satins, taffetas and lace, engaged in lively conversations with one another or with their stiffly suited male counterparts. The great hall and all within exuded opulence, and Alex felt out of place as well as out of sorts. He hated conniving women, no matter what age.

  “This is my daughter, Elizabeth,” Eleanor said as she began his formal introduction down the receiving line. “And my son-in-law, Sir Hillary Durham.”

  Alex nodded and smiled mechanically, but his pulse beat heavily against the constricting fabric of his shirt. Damn Eleanor Bates, he thought as he shook hands with her daughter. Damn Maggie Flynn. Damn them all. I’m out of here.

  But there was to be no such escape. After the receiving line, an endless stream of Eleanor’s cronies from the Brontë Society poured around him, anxious to share their own theories with the American professor they’d all heard about.

  “How will you prove she committed suicide?” “Have you found any new evidence?” “Personally, I agree with you, but you’ll have a hard time getting past Dr. Flynn’s arguments, I’m afraid.” “Dr. Flynn says…” “Dr. Flynn is such a darling woman. Have you met her? I believe she’s here…”

  She was nowhere in sight, but Maggie Flynn was ubiquitous at this gathering. Was there no escaping this woman?

  A chamber orchestra played, and waiters served champagne in long-stemmed flutes. The gallery of Harrington House gleamed in rich red and gold, and a few dancers waltzed on the highly polished wooden floors. Delicacies on silver trays were passed among the guests who attempted, mostly unsuccessfully, to gracefully talk and munch at the same time. Alex wondered cynically why eating ever became a social custom. He passed up the tidbits, sticking with champagne. He would be leaving shortly, as soon as he could make an inconspicuous exit. He could stop for a bite at a nearby pub.

  His gaze traveled the room, scanning for the dragon lady. If he could locate her, perhaps he could also avoid her. Instead his attention fell upon the figure of a slender, dark-haired woman on the other side of the gallery.

  Her back was to him, and she was surrounded by tuxedoed men, like so many penguins. She was dressed in a stunning blue gown, cut out in back, exposing smooth olive skin beneath the luxurious billows of slate-black hair that played freely along her shoulders. Alex’s heart almost stopped.

  Selena!

  What was she doing here? Not in his wildest imagination would he have expected to see the artist who lived like a recluse on a derelict farm at an event such as this. Suddenly the evening became much more interesting.

  But his initial pleasure at discovering Selena at the affair was quickly replaced by panic. What, he thought suddenly, if he was introduced to her and the name of his “client” slipped out in front of someone like Eleanor Bates? His integrity as a scholar would be severely jeopardized.

  With a scowl, he reached for another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Now there were two women to watch out for tonight.

  Selena excused herself from the company of the rich old men Tom had set her up with, pleading a need to powder her nose. She was wretchedly angry with herself for having let Tom manipulate her like this. She had been working in the studio earlier in the day when she’d heard a car door slam, and had been mortified to see Tom Perkins standing on the drive below.

  “Selena!” He’d shouted loudly enough to be heard the next farm over, which sent Domino into a frenzy. She should have known Tom wouldn’t give up so easily, she thought, wiping her hands on a soft towel and going downstairs.

  “Domino! Quiet!” She placed two fingers in her mouth and emitted a most unfeminine whistle. The dog shut up. Then she turned to face the sandy-haired man who stood gazing at the dog uncertainly. “Hello, Tom.” She tried to sound surprised, uninterested. “What brings you here?”

  His blue eyes gleamed in his ruddy face when he saw her, and he hurried over to her and gave her a wet kiss. He aimed it at her lips but, because she turned her head in time, planted it on her cheek.

  “Now, what’s the matter, love?” He put a hand on each of her shoulders and stood back, looking into her face. “Was it something I said, or do you just not like blue?”

  “I’m not going to the party tonight, Tom.”

  “But darling, you simply must. I have set you up with at least two buyers I think are just right there, ready to make multiple purchases. I’ve worked hard on this pre-sell,” he added, his voice revealing a harder edge than before. “I need you to be there to close the deals.”

  “I thought that was your job.” Selena had decided to cut him no slack. She was the artist, he was the dealer. There was nothing between them other than a business arrangement, and she wasn’t interested in his techniques for closing deals. Techniques that involved lecherous men eyeballing her breasts.

  “It takes teamwork, love,” he said, the smile disappearing. “That’s what we are, a team.”

  “Sorry,” she said, wriggling out of his grasp and walking away, signaling for Domino to follow he
r. “I have a lot of work to do.”

  Tom was hot on her trail. “Well, that’s what else I came for. I wanted to see your new work.”

  Selena stopped so quickly and unexpectedly that Tom, hurrying behind, almost ran into her. “I thought you wanted more of the letter series,” she said slowly, turning and leaning back against the sill of the doorway.

  “I do. I do.” Tom hedged a moment. “But, you know, Selena, you can’t go on just doing this one treatment. I mean, get real. The more you paint like this, the less value they will ultimately have. Sort of like having too large of a print run on your signed lithographs.”

  His words struck a raw nerve, but she tried to show no reaction. “I have another in the series almost completed,” she said. “I plan four more after that, and then I’ll go on to something else. You do realize there is a reason why I must complete these, don’t you?”

  Tom looked perplexed. “What would that be, love?”

  “The letter. There are twenty-one pieces altogether. Don’t you think the series would be more valuable, have more of a collector’s interest, if bidders knew the pieces put together meant something?”

  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. The thought had actually never occurred to her before that anyone might view the entire series as a puzzle and wish to collect them all. This was not the reason she felt compelled to paint all of the images of the scraps of the letter, but it was one Tom Perkins could accept, and she could see the wheels starting to turn in his mind.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “That makes sense. I just never knew they were anything other than part of your, uh, imagery. Twenty-one, eh? Where did you get that number?”

  “That’s how many pieces I tore the letter into.”

  “Is it a real letter? What does it say?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a lover’s farewell note I…made up on a whim.”

  Tom looked at her knowingly. “A lover’s farewell? Someone you knew?”

  “No. It’s just a piece of fiction. Romantic. That’s all. I thought it would work in well with the other images.” Selena wished she hadn’t described the contents accurately. She could see she had impelled Tom’s imagination in the wrong direction.

  “Could I see it? The letter, I mean. The whole thing.”

  Selena shrugged and went up the stairs. Without speaking, she took the grubby envelope from the drawer where she kept it and turned to face Tom.

  “Hold out your hands.”

  He did, and she shook twenty tiny white pieces of paper into them. The other was still in her studio. She watched with amusement as he examined them.

  “How can you read this stuff?” he said at last. “Are you sure it means anything?”

  “I told you, it’s just something I made up.”

  “Don’t you think you could have written it a little larger? Why the mini-print?”

  “I’m an artist, and like I said, it was a whim.”

  Without further questions, Tom carefully replaced the pieces into the envelope and gave it back to her. “I’ll take your word for it, darling. But it is an interesting idea. I’ll have to add that aspect to my spiel. Which brings me back to the main reason for my being here…”

  He’d brought the dress and jewelry with him, along with an ironclad intent that she would go with him to the gala after all. Throughout the afternoon, listening to his tirade designed to change her mind, Selena wished she’d had a phone installed so Tom Perkins would not have had the excuse to show up at her studio. Budget or not, she vowed silently to have one put in next week. In the meantime, little by little, Tom had worn her down, until finally she’d agreed to attend the event at Harrington House with him.

  On one condition.

  That he’d never, ever ask her to do it again.

  It was all that was getting her through the evening.

  Once out of the line of vision of her admirers at the far end of the gallery, Selena accepted a flute of champagne from a young waiter whose eyes admired her openly, and she rewarded him with a smile. It was an empty smile, however, practice for the evening.

  She wondered if she practiced enough, would she be able to turn it into a genuine smile, with warmth and depth, and the ability to attract friends?

  Growing up, she was always the outsider. She had made few friends in school. She was afraid to bring anyone home to witness her shame. Avoiding her parents, Selena had felt an outsider even in her own home. Only at the École des Beaux Arts had she experienced a few friendships that made her feel like she belonged, relationships with other young artists who felt equally out of place in the new world of higher education into which they found themselves thrust.

  Slowly, Selena made her way along one wall of the gallery, smiling occasionally at other guests here and there, but not with the warmth that would encourage anyone to engage her in a conversation. She wanted to stretch her reprieve for as long as possible. She felt sure Tom would realize she’d left the group he’d carefully gathered for her to entertain, and he’d be on the prowl to find her again soon.

  Around her, from floor to ceiling, portraits and soft landscapes hung in gilded frames. Selena recognized many of the works. British artists Thomas Gainsborough, George Romney, and Sir Joshua Reynolds had captured individuals and families of the gentry of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in portraits commissioned by the subjects.

  She studied one family group, absently entwining a strand of hair with her fingers. Aristocratic father figure. Softly feminine mother. Cherry-mouthed children in high fashion. What were they like? she wondered. In real life. Did the father love the mother? Or did he secretly abuse her when the portrait artist wasn’t around? And those rosy-cheeked children. Were they happy? Their eyes looked sadly empty, or was that only her imagination?

  Why did she think every family was as unhappy as her own had been? Couldn’t it be that some men and women could share a loving, long-term relationship? A deep, silent pain ached within her. Would she ever share such a bond? Or was she destined to always be alone? Was Matka right? Was this the curse in action in her own life?

  She moved on. Landscapes by Turner and Girtin showcased their considerable talents. Would she ever paint a realistic landscape like that? Or was she imprisoned forever in surrealism? Would she ever be able to paint angels and cherubs? she asked herself, looking at those by Renaissance masters Bellini, El Greco, Tintoretto, Titian, and Veronese, whose works hung here as well.

  Selena decided she was worse company than the men she’d been speaking with earlier, and she made her way through the throng of guests back toward the group. With them, she could at least escape her own morbid thoughts. In moments she found herself surrounded once again by men of varying ages, all dressed alike. She concentrated on remembering their names as she was introduced, but she had the sudden impression that she was surrounded not by individuals, but rather by clones. Not only did they look alike, they sounded alike. They smelled alike. Selena fought back a frightening sensation that she had somehow gotten lost in an alien, surrealistic world.

  One in which, once again, she did not belong.

  What would it be like, she wondered as she pretended to listen to one of them pontificate on the merits of art as an investment, to find a man who wasn’t like all the rest? Didn’t look or act or think like these sexually-driven, cookie-cutter reproductions. Or Tom Perkins. Or her father.

  Did such a man exist? She suddenly longed to meet just one man who stood out from the crowd. A man who didn’t try to impress her, as these were so obviously working hard to do. Someone who could just be himself, and let her be herself. Someone she could trust, who would hold her and understand her and make her feel as if she belonged, after all, to the human race.

  Then she heard the cautious whisper of Matka’s ancient advice, “Be careful what you ask for, child. You just might get it.”

  Then another thought sent her spirits to new depths. What if she did get what she was asking for? Would she be able to let su
ch a man into her life? Or would the curse prevent her from becoming involved, demanding its atonement from her as it had her ancestors?

  Selena caught herself before this ridiculous inner conversation could go further. With her most charming demeanor, she turned to the gentleman who had been speaking. “I agree that art makes an excellent investment,” she said. “Especially if you find an up-and-coming talent and can buy at a good price.” Then she smiled her brightest. “I will be showing again this autumn in London,” she solicited unabashedly. “In case you’re interested.” She caught sight of Tom Perkins headed her way, and added, “But if you’d like to see my work before then, I could arrange something through my agent. In fact, there he is now.”

  Thank you, God, Selena thought, relieved that Tom was there to take over the hustle. Never again, she promised herself, never again will I attend one of these dreadful affairs. My career be damned!

  November 20, 1845

  I live with rage these days. Mine is a quiet rage, and most of the time the others do not suspect. Charlotte thinks I have softened in my attitude toward the publication of our poems, but in fact, the opposite is true. I think it infinite folly, and the only reason I have acquiesced is to quiet her constant harangue. She has almost driven me insane on the matter, and Anne with her, until I have no will to fight them further. Let them do as they may. But I will give them only what I choose, and so I am working to bring my words into a state I deem presentable. I dread the reviews, but then, no one should know the source of the foolishness, as we have come upon a plan to publish veiled under pseudonyms. It is the one sound thought Charlotte has had since raiding my privacy.

  She is to be Currer Bell. I am Ellis Bell, and Anne will be Acton Bell. We have chosen Bell as a joke. The new curate, whom we all find tedious and far less interesting than jovial Willie Weightman, God rest his soul, is Arthur Bell Nicholls. Little will he know his name is so used.

  It is not the poems that distress me, however. It is the intense feelings of hatred and despair that engulf me in moments most unexpected. They arise always from the specter of Mikel’s face, which stalks me at every turn. I can be making bread, and suddenly his face, that beautiful demon face, confronts me as if it were real. It might waylay me on the stair, or rattle my bed in the dark morning hours. I am haunted, haunted, by this unrelenting ghost! I fear for my sanity, and yet I can tell no one. I must find a way to rid myself of these despairing apparitions.