by Jill Jones
But he had some problems with this idea. First, some reviews were not so negative, and in fact had pointed out the strength and mastery of the work. Also, Wuthering Heights sold well, as did Jane Eyre. And even though neither Charlotte nor Emily believed they had created any great works of art, both took satisfaction in the fact they had published books that stood on shelves alongside authors such as Scott and Shelley, whose works they had admired since they were children.
His biggest problem with the theory, however, was that Alex did not think Emily Brontë really gave a damn what anyone thought about her work. She wrote because writing was in her blood. It was her. And she hadn’t stopped writing, undone by the negative reviews, because as late as the spring of 1848, she was working on a second novel.
He had come here for answers, but it seemed the longer Alex sat and brooded, the more questions he raised. He looked at his watch. He’d been lost in his musings for over an hour. He stood up and stretched, noting with a frown that the blue Land Rover was no longer parked in the driveway below.
Selena slung her paintbrush at the canvas, splattering acrylic pigment across the images she had been fighting for hours. She watched a globule of orange drip like rusty blood to the base of the taut fabric and seep onto the easel. Frustration raged through her, and she felt as if she wanted to bite somebody.
She wiped her hands and took off her smock. She had to get out of here. The walls were closing in, and she felt trapped: trapped by her need to earn a living with the only talent and skill she knew, and trapped by another, perhaps greater need, to exorcise the artistic devils from her work.
But damn it if those devils didn’t sell!
She’d heard from Tom Perkins only three days after the affair at Harrington that he had a buyer who wanted four paintings, but of specific sizes, none of which she had in her inventory. The price offered was enough to support her for many months.
At first it seemed like the perfect opportunity to accomplish two goals at once. She had four fragments of the letter left in the envelope, and she hoped, even expected, once they were on canvas she would be freed from the grip of the cursed, repetitive imagery. The client wanted four companion pieces using this theme, so it appeared an ideal conclusion to the ordeal.
But when she started on the first of the commissioned work, there was no life to what appeared on the canvas. The images seemed mechanical, unanimated, dull. She had demanded they let her go, and now, when she needed them most, it would seem they were slipping away like phantoms.
“Be careful what you ask for…”
And then there was that other matter, the one that disturbed her even more.
The one named Alex Hightower.
Selena took off the smudged painting smock and covered her shoulders with her woolen shawl. She filled the teakettle with water and placed it on the burner. Then she stirred the coals in the hearth and added another log. Doing simple, normal things to make her feel normal, but she was only partly successful.
The fact remained, she’d never felt normal in her life. What made her think she could start now? Except oddly, when she was with Alex Hightower at the party, when she’d let herself be comforted in his arms, she felt more normal than at any time she could recall.
Like she belonged there.
Like she could have a life after all.
The kettle whistled, and Selena poured hot water into the pot, half wishing a rain-soaked hiker named Alex Hightower would show up at her door again in time for tea.
But he wouldn’t show up, not unless she called him. Which she had avoided for an entire week, even though she had a telephone in the studio now. Why?
She poured herself a large mug of tea and settled into the comfort of the shabby old sofa by the fire. Domino came to beg, but seeing she had no biscuit or other tidbit, he nestled at her feet. Peaches jumped onto the sofa and purred her way into Selena’s lap. Hizzonor stood a stoic watch on the windowsill. All was peaceful and content.
Except for Selena’s troubled thoughts. She stared into the flames, trying to understand what bothered her so about the tall, good-looking American. He had been gentle and tender with her when he’d held her in his arms and kissed her. She had felt great security and compassion in his arms. On the dance floor, he’d held her at a respectable distance, not like the other leering, lecherous partners she’d danced with that evening. There was nothing tawdry in his attentions, nothing like the slimy drunken passes Tom had made toward her after they left the party.
Selena shuddered, remembering the ugly scene that had erupted when she, as the designated driver since Tom had indulged in too much champagne, had pulled up in front of an inn in Stanbury and insisted that Tom stay there, instead of in her bed. He’d entreated her, pleaded with her, even threatened her with ruin, but finally, when the innkeeper offered to call the police, he’d acquiesced to her wishes.
When his car was gone from her driveway, and she woke up the next day, Selena figured her career was over. But when she placed a call to the Perkins Galleries later in the week to let him know she had a phone, Tom behaved as if nothing had ever happened. In fact, he said he was glad she’d called, and told her about the commissioned work she now struggled with.
Tom was not one to let his ego get in the way of filling his pocketbook.
Tom Perkins no longer mattered to Selena, one way or another, however. There were other dealers in London and elsewhere. Her career, she believed now, could go on without him.
But Alex Hightower was another concern altogether.
Selena sipped her tea, thinking about the way he looked the first time she’d seen him. She smiled, remembering broad shoulders and tight jeans and dark, rain-damp hair. From the night on the terrace at Harrington, she remembered full, sensuous lips, and arms that welcomed her into their strong protection.
And she remembered how easily she had fallen into them.
And that was what bothered her about Alexander Hightower.
She was fiercely attracted to him. Dangerously, intensely attracted. Alex made her skin tingle, her heart race. He encouraged her laughter, and he freed her tears. He touched her somewhere deep in her soul.
And with him, she was vulnerable.
That was a place she’d sworn she’d never be with a man.
With another taste of the hot, soothing brew, Selena closed her eyes and thought back to the other times she’d been attracted to men, although those memories paled in comparison to what she felt now for Alex.
She recalled in particular one man…Could she really call him a man? He had been no older than she, a fellow student in Paris, grappling as she had been with the realities of becoming an adult. He had been sweet, attentive, in love with her, or at least in love with the idea of being in love in Paris. Maybe that was what had attracted her as well. The idea of being in love.
But she hadn’t been in love, nor was she interested in such a major distraction from her career training. A career to Selena meant she would never have to depend upon a man for financial support. Nor would she have to stand for any abuse, the way her mother had. Consequently, her first sexual relationship, although intense and passionate, was also very short.
Over the ensuing few years, she had dated other men but had never allowed herself to get to know them well enough for there to be a possibility of a future together. Her art was her future. It was her freedom. It was the only love she needed or wanted.
Until now.
Selena sat up with a start. Was she in love with Alex Hightower? How could she know? She didn’t have a clue what being in love meant. And she’d only been in his company twice, both times just briefly.
But what other explanation could there be for the electric attraction that charged through her whenever she thought about him? That certainly hadn’t happened in Paris. What else could explain her seeming inability to quit thinking about the man? He’d reigned supreme in her dreams each night, as well as her thoughts by day.
She didn’t need this. Her life wa
s crazy enough without this sort of complication. Her thoughts were in a muddle, like the paint splotched on the canvas in the next room.
What she needed right now was clarity.
Clarity. And freedom.
Freedom from thoughts of the handsome American. And from the disturbing and unbidden desire that accompanied those thoughts.
She needed freedom from the cursed images that were the nemesis of her career at the moment. She needed to finish those four paintings and sell them, then develop the new series or style that would mark the next phase of her career.
She hoped.
The thought of such freedom suddenly energized her. Like a housewife fired up for spring cleaning, Selena threw off the cumbersome shawl and bolted from the sofa, sending Peaches with a squall to the floor. Going to the armoire in the corner, she put on her boots and picked up a light cardigan.
She tucked her handbag under her arm and fairly ran down the stairs and out of the door, where crisp, clean air struck her full across the face. With determination to clear away the cobwebs in her mind, she got into the Land Rover, which surprisingly started on only the third try.
Selena sped toward town as fast as she dared. The wind brushed her skin, and she inhaled deeply, allowing the clean fresh air to sweep away the residue of obsessions that threatened the freedom she fought so fiercely to attain.
Obsessions like wild horses and Gypsy campfires and torn bits of a letter.
Obsessions like Alexander Hightower.
Chapter 14
June 6, 1846
My hands shake so that I can scarcely write this, but I must. Oh, I must! My heart is singing, and yet I am more afraid now than ever. Mikel has returned! Just as I managed to ease him from my mind, without warning I find him there again as large, nay, larger than life. He is no ghost, no spirit of my bedeviled imagination. He is flesh and blood, come back, he told me, to thank me once again for saving his life. But I must write it as it happened today…
Keeper and I left shortly after dinner for a long walk upon the moors. The day was filled with sweet warm air and sunshine, and I longed to be out there. As I have done so many times in this past year, I chose the path leading to the ravine at the back of the hill, never thinking, not even wanting, to find Mikel waiting for me there. I had completely erased the torment of my memories by letting Heathcliff suffer for me, and now it seems as if the poor man’s fate was for naught, for the moment I laid eyes upon Mikel’s dark, handsome face, everything I have striven to control fled in an instant.
I was almost upon him before I saw him, although Keeper raced ahead of me, barking and wagging his tail as if greeting an old friend. He was sitting by the beck, tossing stones into the stream. His black horse was tethered nearby. I feared my heart would stop, and I thought immediately to turn and run, but he saw me first and came toward me, calling my name in that wild and beautiful tongue. I was so stunned I could not speak. If I were a weaker soul, I fear I would have fainted, but I held steadfast and hid my feelings. Indeed, my feelings were and are in chaos once again. Seeing him unleashed my abated anger, and I fear my buried licentious desire as well.
He came to where I stood as if frozen to the spot and held out his hand His smile was so beautiful to my eyes, I could scarcely take my gaze from his face. I wanted to smile in return, but I dared not I can no longer trust my will where this man is concerned. Instead, I asked him what he wanted of me. He said he missed me and had thought about me all winter when he was home in Wales. I countered that I doubted his words very much, since he had left me without warning and without saying good-bye. It was then he told me what happened last summer.
His brother had been sent to find him, as his father lay dying and wanted his eldest son to be at his side. When I learned of this, I felt foolish and selfish for harbouring such anger toward him. Still, I replied, you could have left a message, somewhere or with somebody. He quietly reminded me that we had agreed to keep our acquaintance just between the two of us. And when I asked why he did not leave a note of some kind, he replied simply by saying, “Emilie, I cannot read nor write.”
What am I to do? What will come of all this? Fear freezes my heart even as fire flames its passions. Control I must maintain control I have a strong will, and I must use it now. I cannot succumb to his attentions, albeit today he was formal and polite. It is not him I fear. It is my own weakness of character, my own feminine reactions to his physical presence. What is wrong with me? Why does my heart race even as I write this, thinking of this wild creature of the moors? His very countenance exudes the freedom that eludes me. Perhaps therein lies my attraction. His skin is tanned from the sun, and his hair is long and freely flowing in the wind. His eyes are dark as midnight. They burn like hot coals into my very soul His lips are full, and now that his pain is gone, he laughs often in a carefree manner.
He says he will be nearby all summer, for there are many wild ponies in the area. He mentioned that the encampment there at the ravine would serve as his home for the summer, since he was already used to the place. But then, he added what my poor heart wanted so desperately to hear, that it wasn’t the place that drew him to return, but rather it was me. Dare I believe he spoke the truth in saying that he missed me? I want so to believe it, and yet it is not my nature to presuppose such friendship. I am unused to the attentions of a man, other than Branwell and Papa, and this man’s attentions do not fall into the same category. I am afraid, for when I am with Mikel, the control that is my mainstay vanishes into the air. Yes, I am afraid, and yet, the danger of my dark desire draws me as a moth to the candle.
It is past midnight, and the wind is hushed and still. The sky is clear and the stars are bright. I huddle here in my miserable room, scratching like a madwoman in this diary, while out there, Mikel sleeps in the cradle of the moors. When I at last lay down upon my bed, I will dream that I, too, sleep encompassed in that vast freedom.
A week, then ten days passed since the party at Harrington House, and still there had been no word from Selena. Alex had tried in vain to cast her dark-eyed image from his mind, burying himself in work, taking long hikes on the moors, reading until the wee hours every night.
But her grip on his heart appeared stronger than ever.
Alex could stand it no longer. Unlike Emily Brontë, it seemed he could not settle only for anticipation. He had to see her, and let the chips fall as they may. Anything was better than the restless anxiety in which he’d dwelt for a fortnight.
He strode up the cobblestone street to the parking lot where Eleanor Bates’s elegant antique Jaguar held court over the lesser vehicles parked nearby. The top was up, but since the day was gray, Alex decided to leave it there. The engine roared to life at the flip of the switch, almost as if it were new. Alex grinned and ran his hands over the red leather dash. He would have to come up with some very creative thank-you present before he left.
Winning the debate would help.
He made his way to Selena’s farmhouse with the accuracy of a homing pigeon. A light drizzle slickened the roadway and turned Bridgeton Lane to sandy slime. The Jag approached the driveway, and his pulse quickened when he saw Selena standing in front of the Land Rover. Her long floral-printed skirt billowed in the wind beneath the magenta cape she’d worn the first time he saw her. The hood of the vehicle was propped open, and she was glaring at the engine, her fists clenched at her waist.
Alex frowned and reached for his umbrella as he switched off the ignition. “What’s wrong?” he asked, popping the umbrella and going quickly to her side. He held its protection over them both, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing, as well as the barking dog that ran to meet him.
Selena transferred her glare to Alex. Then her face softened and she shook her head. “I don’t understand it. I drove it to town just this morning, and now the stupid thing won’t start.” She leaned over and inspected the silent engine. “I’ve been having a lot of trouble with it lately, but I guess I’ve waited too long to have it looked at.
I think it’s a dead duck.”
“Let me take a look.” Handing her the umbrella, he got into the vehicle and turned the ignition. It ground grumpily for a moment, then died with a metallic whine. Another turn. A low mechanical growl. And then nothing.
Something tickled the back of Alex’s head, and he reached up to brush it away. His fingers encountered a soft, rubbery object that bounced away at his touch. Startled, he turned to find the entire backseat filled with balloons. Next to him on the passenger seat was a cake. A birthday cake. And a large, gaily wrapped package.
Curious, he returned to where Selena stood in the rain, her face as gloomy as the weather. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It sounds like your battery is gone.”
“I just bought a new one last month.”
“Then something’s probably wrong with the electrical system. You’re going to need a mechanic. What’s with the balloons?”
He saw Selena swallow, fighting tears that shimmered in her eyes. “It’s my grandmother’s birthday,” she told him. “I’ve planned a surprise party for her at the nursing home. I’m supposed to be in Leeds in a little more than an hour.”
Alex hesitated for less than a heartbeat. Although spending the afternoon in a nursing home wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind for the day, the time together in the car would give them a chance to get to know one another better.
“You get the cake,” he directed. “I’ll get the balloons. We’ll take my car.”
“I…I couldn’t. I mean, I couldn’t ask you to—”
“I love birthday parties.” With that, he opened the back door to the Land Rover and secured the balloons, wrapping the ribbons around his fingers. They were filled with helium and bobbed gently in the wind. A bright yellow one managed to bounce loose and slipped from his grasp.
