by Jill Jones
December 11, 1845
Tonight as Anne and Charlotte and I sat by the fire, as we always do after Papa goes to bed, our talk turned to writing and of Branwell’s mad attempt at writing a novel He calls his work “And the Weary Are at Rest.” I have not seen it, but he has informed Charlotte that it is a tale not unlike his own unfortunate affair with the Robinson woman, and that he plans to write it quickly and sell it for a tidy sum.
Charlotte doubts, as I do, that we will see him succeed in this venture, although we all would pray it so. Poor Branii. He will never finish it, I fear, for his thinking is too muddled from drink and laudanum. But his efforts have raised Charlotte’s ambition far higher than merely publishing our poetry. Now she wants us all to work at writing a novel! Who is the more mad—Branwell or Charlotte?
I told Charlotte that I was loath to force words for commerce. The poems I have written sprang from my heart, and to write for the mere possibility of earning a living seems impossible to me. Whereupon I made this statement, Anne surprised us both by revealing that while still at Thorp Green she had started a novel she hopes to sell. Charlotte was delighted, and then went on to outline an idea of her own. She will call her novel The Professor. “It is, she says, her tribute to Msgr. Heger, although Anne and I both deplore her continuing obsession with that dreadful man. Still, as I listened, some thoughts of my own were set into motion.
To wit: If Branwell can successfully overcome his grief over losing Mrs. Robinson, and if Charlotte can rid herself of the possession of Msgr. Heger through the writing of their stories, perhaps it is a way that I, too, can rid myself of Mikel’s ghost. Already the thoughts and ideas tumble about. I will make him a madman. A dark and hateful personage no sane person could love. And I will betray his love. Yes, I will destroy his sanity, on paper, the way Mikel has destroyed mine in the flesh!
December 26, 1845
Christmas passed quietly yesterday, the day being little different from any other Christmas day. We attended church services to please Papa, and I supervised the roasting of a fine fat hen. Our meager financial resources precluded the giving of gifts, other than of the handmade variety. A small, uneventful holiday, to be sure, but one, I would avow, far preferable to that of a gipsie camped out in a snowstorm.
Charlotte and Anne and I continue to talk of writing our novels, but we have decided to keep these efforts to ourselves. Branwell, as expected, is making little progress in his writing, and should by some miracle we be successful in our own, it would only painfully underscore his failure once again. We love him too much for that, and so we remain silent, except in the quiet hours late at night when he is not at home.
Outside, the snow lies deep and silent, with more promised by the look of the clouds. I cannot walk upon the moors today, although I long for the solace I find there. My soul remains rent into warring factions over my continuing weakness as concerns Mikel, and I long for the peace within that once was mine. I long to regain my strength and courage and become once again the soul without doubt that I was before the events of the past summer slew my reason.
Ideas for my story surge through me, but I cannot seem to begin writing on a novel, although Charlotte and Anne are busy with theirs each night. My thoughts are still too confused and painful. I must gain control over them first, for I can only purge what I can control. I must find my courage once again before I can find my way out.
Chapter 11
Alex had failed to escape the clutches of Eleanor Bates, who had, true to her word, introduced him to many important figures in the academic world, including the chancellor of the University of Leeds. He had spent the last thirty minutes with the scholar, who turned out to be an adroit conversationalist as well as a Brontë lover. Alex began to relax a little, and decided, as he headed toward the men’s room, that he might as well stay awhile. So far, he had managed to avoid both Maggie and Selena, although the latter had never strayed far from his thoughts.
Harrington House was open for viewing by the guests, and Alex took advantage of the break to look around. Everywhere there was beauty. Paintings. Sculpture. Eighteenth century furniture made especially for the estate by Thomas Chippendale. Fine Chinese porcelain and exquisite pieces of Sèvres and Crown Derby china. A treasure house, filled to the brim.
Alex wandered aimlessly from room to room, enjoying a solitary interlude, away from the pressure of attempting to be something he wasn’t—a social animal. Entering a carefully preserved bedroom, he surveyed the opulent contents. The ornately carved bed, high enough off the floor to require a small step stool to mount the mattress. A chiseled and polished marble mantel and hearth. A mahogany chaise covered in luxurious white damask.
As an historian, Alex knew intellectually that these overstated furnishings and surroundings were part of the everyday life of those born to the upper classes in nineteenth century England. But to a boy born into middle-class America, it was a reach of the imagination to conceive of such a lifestyle.
On a whim, he decided to give it a try.
He looked around to make sure he was unobserved. Then, with a theatrical flair, he strode to stand in front of the fireplace. As lord of the manor, he commanded his servant: Draw my bath now, James, and lay out my riding clothes. It looks to be a suitable day for a round about the place. A spot of port, if you will. And what is m’lady about this cheery morning?
In the theater of his mind, he cast a leading lady, a dark-haired beauty in blue silk who stretched lazily on the snowy white chaise, her long legs bare, one knee bent. She smiled up at him and beckoned him into her arms.
Rock-hard desire suddenly slammed through him, and Alex knew he had to see Selena again.
Here.
Tonight.
In the flesh.
He could explain the Bonnell thing to her. It wasn’t a big deal, but he needed to tell her the truth before somebody else did. Hurrying back to the gallery, deep in debate with himself, Alex didn’t see the redhead until it was too late.
She was just coming out of the ladies’ room, lips freshly reddened, hair gleaming. “So, Alex, dear,” she said, walking straight for him, her green eyes wide with anger. “I am surprised to see you. I thought you weren’t coming tonight.”
Caught off guard, Alex reflexively went on the defensive. “It isn’t what you think, Maggie. I hadn’t planned to come. You know how I hate these affairs.”
“So you’ve told me.” She surveyed him slowly from head to toe. “So why are you here?”
Her tone was imperious, as if she were the lady of the manor and he only a minion with no right to be in the presence of the peerage. And suddenly Alex got it, that in her mind, he had held that status all along. She had claimed she loved him, but she hadn’t. She wanted to own him. Own him and control him, like she did everything else in her life.
Anger flared through him but quickly turned to disgust. Maggie Flynn was a despicable woman who did not deserve one moment more of his time or energy. Alex planted his feet firmly and squared his shoulders, crossing his arms in front of him. He studied those blazing eyes intently, without blinking. When at last he spoke, his voice was flat, calm, emotionless. “I didn’t want to come, but I changed my mind, Maggie. As I am sure you have learned, Eleanor can be most convincing.”
Maggie glared at him, and Alex could see the pulse pounding in the hollow at the base of her neck. “It wasn’t that you didn’t want to come, Alex,” she hissed. “If that were the case, you wouldn’t be here. It’s that you didn’t want to come with me. Why didn’t you just say so from the start? You didn’t have to lie.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
“You were lying then, and you’re lying now. The truth is, we’re not friends anymore, Dr. Hightower. And you needn’t worry about going anywhere with me ever again.” She paused, her face flushed, then lowered her voice and continued. “I won’t bother you further, Alex. At least in your personal life. But I intend to bother you a lot in August.
“In fact, I intend to destroy you.
”
Selena’s feet hurt, and she was exhausted from being on display. All evening, Tom had dragged her from one group to another, showing her off to all the right people, his hand rarely leaving the curve at the back of her waist, where, to her repugnance, it rested lightly against her exposed skin. She had discreetly removed it more than once, but she detected a perverted pleasure on Tom’s part when she did so. It was as if by touching her when he knew she objected, he was asserting an unspoken dominance over her.
Just getting through the evening, and the scene with Tom that she knew would be unavoidable later, was Selena’s main goal in life at the moment.
She had managed to free herself, even if only momentarily, from Tom’s jealous monopoly, and stepped outside onto the terrace, which overlooked lush Italian gardens and a small, serene lake. The sun had disappeared behind the surrounding hillsides, but the sky retained a brilliant luminescence.
Going to the balustrade, Selena leaned against it, delighting in the display of the late night sunset. In the distance the surface of the lake was like a looking glass, a slate-blue mirror reflecting the resplendent sky overhead. A night bird called plaintively from the wood. She breathed deeply of the sweet summer air and for the first time that evening began to relax.
Selena sensed more than saw a man approaching her, and her reverie was shattered. She tensed, preparing to confront Tom Perkins. Instead she turned to find the tall, good-looking American heading straight for her. Their eyes locked, and although she’d been wanting to talk to him about his client’s interest in her work, seeing him tonight spawned an entirely new and disturbing agenda within her.
He looked different tonight. Perhaps it was the clothes he wore. He filled out the formal jacket better than most, she couldn’t help noticing. And he wore it easily, with an air of nonchalance, as if he was wearing jeans.
His face was solemn at first, then the corners of his mouth turned up into that same sexy smile he’d given her when he’d shown up at the farmhouse. His smile moved upward into his gray eyes, which were riveted on her own. Selena’s heart skipped several beats. She hadn’t remembered him being this handsome. She swallowed, watching him stride purposefully toward her, and the rest of the world seemed to dissolve around her.
“May I join you?” he asked.
She liked his distinctly American accent, with its hint of a southern drawl. Her own voice seemed lodged on an unfamiliar emotion that constricted her throat. “On one condition,” she said at last.
“And that is?”
“We don’t talk about my work.”
Selena saw what could only be described as relief flash briefly across his expression, and she suspected the reason she hadn’t heard from him was that Henry Bonnell had decided against acquiring her paintings. If that was the case, she didn’t want to know it at the moment anyway.
“It’s better not to mix business with pleasure, don’t you think?” he replied, and Selena nodded, wishing certain other business people held the same view.
“Quite an affair, isn’t it?” she said, motioning to the tall doors which barely contained the noise of the party beyond, searching for some common ground between them other than her work.
“I suppose it is. But it’s not exactly my cup of tea.”
Selena raised an eyebrow, surprised. “How so?”
His grin was engaging. “I just don’t like formal affairs.”
Well, at least they had one thing in common, she thought, and his easy smile worked its way steadily into her heart. “Neither do I.”
He looked deeply into her eyes. The grin vanished, and he spoke in a low, husky voice. “But here we are. We might as well make the most of it, don’t you agree? Would you care to dance?”
Alex took Selena’s slender hand in his and led her through the doorway and onto the dance floor. Her skin was cool, electric, like the blue of her gown. He allowed himself momentarily to get lost in the dark depths of her eyes. Around them, the opulence of the glittering gallery suggested the grandeur of a gilded make-believe castle. The music spiraled magically throughout the ballroom. And in his arms he held a beautiful princess.
For a fleeting moment Alex almost regretted having sought her out. What was the point if she, like that other fabled princess, left him, if not at the stroke of midnight, then at some other time, leaving him bereft once again?
But the thought faded as quickly as it had appeared, for Alex could scarcely think about anything but the woman in his arms. He breathed in the scent that suffused her being, a heady, exotic fragrance, like spices growing wild in the rich earth. He closed his eyes, wanting to bury himself in that earth. He felt the skin of her bare back where his hand rested at her waistline, and allowed private fantasies to move his touch lower still. He held her formally, slightly away from him, fighting the urge to pull her against him too tightly as they danced, lest his growing desire for her become embarrassingly apparent.
He looked into her face once again, anxious for some sign that she might desire him as well. Her cheeks were flushed, but when his eyes met hers, she smiled hesitantly, then looked away.
Too soon, the slow number ended, and the band moved into a rock and roll oldie. Alex cocked his head slightly and shrugged.
“I never was very good at rock and roll. Would you like some champagne?”
Selena’s dazzling smile threatened to burn into his soul. “Yes, actually, that would be quite nice,” she said. They made their way to the bar and then back outside to the terrace.
The cool air restored his senses somewhat, which only served to heighten his anxiety. There was so much he wanted to know about her, had to know, before he could allow himself to take one more step along the dangerous course he was traveling; headed, he felt sure, for another emotional disaster. But try as he might, he seemed unable to steer in another direction.
Alex seldom felt clumsy with words, but at the moment he didn’t know how to phrase the question he was burning to ask without sounding stupid. He opted for a direct approach.
“Are you with someone tonight?” he asked. “Like a husband, for instance, who might decide to break my nose if he found me drinking champagne on the terrace with his wife?”
She laughed, and the sound sparkled in his ears. “Oh, good lord no. I’m not married. I came tonight with Tom Perkins. You know, my agent in London.”
Alex frowned, recalling the gallery owner’s too-affectionate greeting when Selena had arrived to pick up her paintings. She might not be married, but obviously there was more between them than a client-agent relationship.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
She shot him a quick glance that said he was out of line. “I came because Tom insisted it was terribly important for business.” Her voice was taut, but then it softened, and she laughed softly. “But as I said, I despise these affairs. I managed to escape him a little while ago, but he’s bound to be on the roam for me.”
Alex stiffened. Whether Perkins had designs on Selena or not, he had no desire to run into the art dealer and be forced to maintain the farce of his little masquerade in the presence of the genuine article.
But he was even less inclined to take his leave of Selena prematurely. Perhaps if they remained outside for a while and kept to the shadows, Tom Perkins wouldn’t interfere.
“I understand you grew up in Stanbury,” he said at last, and he noted the look of surprise on her face.
“How did you know that? And how did you know my surname name is Wood? I don’t use my last name anymore.” Her voice held an edge of suspicion.
He laughed casually, using every ounce of his will to refrain from reaching out to touch her. His fingers longed to stroke her graceful, slender arms, the curve of her neck, the lovely fullness exposed between the jeweled necklace and the low-cut bodice of her dress. “Let’s just say I ran into a mutual friend.”
She looked at him queerly, as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “I have no friends.”
Startled, Alex replied, “Don’t
be silly, everyone has friends.” Abruptly, Selena turned away from him, looking out into the night, but not before Alex caught the melancholy look that stole into her dark eyes. He would have bitten off his tongue to be able to retract his casual remark. But what a strange and unbelievable comment coming from such a talented and beautiful woman.
An extended silence stretched between them. Then Alex answered her questions.
“I met a fellow, quite by accident, up on the moors. It was before I came to your place. He said he was from Stanbury, and I’d just come from the gallery in Haworth where they told me you lived near Stanbury. So I asked if he knew an artist named Selena. He said he’d gone to school with a girl named Selena Wood.”
He paused, hoping she would comment, but she didn’t, so he went on. “He said she was a Gypsy. The images in your paintings immediately came to mind, and I figured you must be that girl.”
When she didn’t respond, he touched her shoulders gently and turned her to face him. “Selena?” Her eyes seemed even larger than usual, and brighter, and Alex realized with a start it was because they were brimming with tears. “Selena, what’s the matter? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Before he knew what he was doing, Alex pulled her into his arms and kissed her, gently at first, and then with a desire he had held in check for a long, long time. He wanted to kiss away her tears, and her loneliness, and whatever other demons haunted her soul. He felt the smooth skin of her bare back beneath his touch, and he deepened his kiss, as if he could drive her devils away by the very force of his passion.
