by Jill Jones
September 25, 1848
Would that Mikel’s arms could enfold me now and comfort me in the grief that enshrouds me instead. Branwell has died, and I have scarce been able to make it through the past two days. Despite his degradations of the past years, he was our beloved brother, and we are all in a sorry state. The house is as still as the stone floor of St. Michael’s where we shall bury him on Thursday. No more shall we hear his ravings, as vile and repulsive as they were, and yet perversely we shall miss them, for they were his life, and now that life is no more.
I take solace from knowing he is free at last from his torment, and I am thankful for the peace that seemed to come over him in his last hours. After years of near insanity, Branii seemed suddenly to come to his senses yesterday, only a few hours before his death. He spoke as the person he once was, clear-headed, affectionate, our brother. We were recalled from Sunday services by John Brown, who had come to sit with him for that brief hour, for Branwell knew that he was dying. Papa held him in his arms and prayed aloud while Anne, Charlotte, and I looked on. I have never witnessed death firsthand, although it has touched my life often enough. Before he took his final breath, he asked forgiveness for his mortal sins and for the duress he had inflicted upon us. Oddly, he did not mention Lydia Robinson, but wanted only to make amends with his family. And then he suffered his final convulsion…it is hard to bear the memory. I shall miss him maybe more than the others, although Papa is inconsolable at losing his only son. I am continually awed at what love can forgive.
September 30, 1848
Two days ago we laid Branwell’s body to rest, and grief has us all in its tight clutches. Papa is morose and stays in his room. Charlotte feels ill and won’t eat, and in addition to the malady of the stomach which has visited me in recent weeks, I suffer from a cough which came on the afternoon of the funeral. I was chilled already from inside and out, and I stepped into a marshy puddle, wetting my feet thoroughly. I should have watched my step more carefully, but my thoughts were with my brother, not myself. I am paying for that carelessness now.
Chapter 24
Something about her conversation with Tom Perkins had bothered Dr. Maggie Flynn all day. The fact that Alex had claimed to represent the interests of an art collector named Henry Bonnell was ludicrous, but Maggie knew Alex possibly better than any human on earth. He wouldn’t have done something like that unless…
Unless what?
That was what bothered Maggie.
What was Alex up to? Was it just some kind of absurd ruse to play up to that artist? She didn’t think so. In their year together in academe, he’d never given her reason to believe he was less than honest. A renegade in his thinking, to be sure. But not a liar.
And yet, he’d obviously lied to this woman, misrepresenting himself blatantly, and foolishly, for if anyone with any knowledge of the Brontës heard about it, they would know the name Bonnell.
So what was his game?
Maggie tapped the end of her pencil on the ancient hardwood desk in her office. Maybe Alex had actually found something to support his ridiculous contention that Emily Brontë committed suicide…
Her razor-sharp mind went back to the afternoon they’d spent together in London, to their visit to the gallery, and it honed in on a comment she recalled:
“Looks like Emily’s writing…”
Hastily, she picked up the phone and dialed the Perkins Galleries in London.
“Mr. Perkins? Dr. Maggie Flynn here. Do you have a minute?”
“I will make time. Have you come up with any ideas as to why your friend Dr. Hightower would pose as an agent for a dead man?”
Maggie cleared her throat. “Dr. Hightower is not exactly my friend. I’m afraid I misled you just a bit in our last conversation. But I’ve been thinking. What do you know about those paintings your client creates?”
“Nothing other than they seem to sell well. Why?”
“Dr. Hightower seemed strangely taken with the tidbits of writing she has in all of her pictures. Do they mean anything?”
There was a long pause on the line. “Now that you mention it, Selena told me that those images were a message that made sense if pieced together.”
Maggie smiled. “Did she say what that message was?”
“Something about a lover’s farewell note or some such gibberish. What are you getting at, Dr. Flynn? I’m a busy man. Too busy for word games.”
“Too busy to investigate the possible existence of an extremely valuable literary artifact?”
A long silence. “I don’t deal in artifacts, Dr. Flynn. I deal in art.”
“Then would you consider allowing me to examine the paintings? Perhaps I could discern if those scraps of painted words mean anything of importance.”
“At the moment, I have none of Selena’s paintings in the gallery. She took them all back to her studio. The pieces of the note she used in the paintings are there as well.” He hesitated. “I take it from your earlier comment you are no longer interested in one of those hangings for Dr. Hightower?”
Maggie smiled coldly. “I’m interested in hanging Dr. Hightower, not a hanging for him.”
“Perhaps, then, we have something in common, Dr. Flynn.”
A brisk but warm wind blew Selena’s hair as she drove home from Matka’s in the recently repaired Land Rover, her mind and her heart at war with one another. Intellectually, she could accept Matka’s argument that it was time to get over old hurts and fears and take a chance on love, but on another level, she didn’t know if she could do that. There was more to it than just an irrational fear of the curse, but she didn’t know what exactly was continuing to emotionally paralyze her.
She turned into Bridgeton Lane and in a few moments into her own driveway, where Domino gave her his usual frenetic greeting.
Normal.
Familiar.
Home.
But somehow things seemed different, as if the world had shifted. The horizon seemed wider, the sky more expansive. There seemed to be more…possibilities.
“Come on up, boy,” she called to the dog.
Inside the studio, things were just as she left them, and yet, it was as if she were looking at them through different eyes. A paint-spattered smock hung over the back of the sofa, alongside her woolen shawl. A half-empty bottle of wine and a well-sampled bottle of brandy stood on the counter. Paintings in haunting shades of mauve and gray hung from floor to ceiling. Ashes lay in the fireplace in silent testimony to last night’s intimate encounter.
Intimacy.
For the first time in her life, Selena had experienced intimacy, and the memory of the time spent in Alex’s arms warmed her as she stood alone in the empty studio. She liked the feel of his arms around her, the strength of his body next to hers, the feeling of being protected, sheltered in his embrace. For the first time in her life, she’d felt safe, secure, and loved. Yes, Gran, she thought, I want to love Alex. If I only knew how.
And if only I knew it was me he wanted as well. His furtive behavior in copying the words from her paintings and his secret visit to her grandmother had raised Selena’s suspicions that Alex might be more interested in the letter than in her, and that he was just using her to get his hands on that letter. But why? What interest could he possibly have in that cursed piece of writing?
More than any other time in her life, Selena needed answers.
Going to where the paintings hung like opaque windows on the walls, depicting a strange and alien world, she stared at the silent riders and the monkeys and the organ grinders, and especially the torn scraps carrying their jigsaw message. “Is it you the man wants?” she whispered. “Or is it me?”
She surveyed her work in much the same way she had the day she’d tried to chant the images out of her life, and strangely, they seemed far less threatening than before. She saw anger in the paintings, and fear. Perhaps even hatred. But somehow these emotions no longer had a stranglehold on her. They belonged to the images now.
And sudd
enly, with great relief, Selena realized it was unlikely she would ever finish the commissions, no matter how much she needed the money. Painting the rest of the letter was no longer necessary. In fact, it might be impossible.
The demons were departing.
All that remained was a need to sort through the residue of a lifetime of fear of intimate relationships to find the key that would unlock new hope, new possibilities. A key that would allow her to trust, to open herself and take a chance on love.
The one you love holds the key. Give him the letter…”
Selena slid her handbag from her shoulder and dug through it until she found the letter. She went to the window and squinted, reading the tragic message in its entirety.
What was it about this message that Alex wanted so badly? And what made Matka believe Alex would be able to dispel the curse?
Selena remembered the other gift Matka had pressed upon her. It, too, was nestled in the depths of the large bag. She felt for its cool, hard roundness and brought the crystal ball into the light.
Holding it up to the window, she wondered if Matka really could see things in its depths. Selena saw nothing there except the swirling clouds and shadows and angles formed by nature when the quartz had crystallized untold ages ago. She had often witnessed her grandmother reading the ball for others, but she had never really believed in scrying. At the moment, however, she wished she did. Perhaps the ball would give her answers to the questions she harbored in the deepest, darkest corners of her heart.
Selena turned the ball over in her hands. Actually, when she thought of it, Matka had given accurate guidance to many people using this cool object. But how did it work?
The shrill ring of the telephone shattered her thoughts. “Hello?” she finally responded after the fourth ring.
“Selena. It’s Tom. How are you getting along?”
“Only so-so,” she responded truthfully. “I’m afraid I’m a little…stuck on those commissions.”
“Oh, dear.” His voice reflected serious concern that she wouldn’t fill his coffers as quickly as he’d intended. “Well, I am certain that whatever block you’re experiencing, it will pass. Listen, love, I have a favor to ask.”
Selena was in no mood to grant Tom Perkins any favors, and so she didn’t reply. She listened, however, in growing aggravation as he continued.
“As you know, I have been trying to trace down that American collector Bonnell, and I’m afraid I’m having no luck. Have you spoken with Hightower lately?”
“Not about Bonnell. Why?”
“I’d…like to get together with him, you and I. Maybe between us we could stir up some action there, you know?”
“I’m sure when Alex has some news about Bonnell, he’ll give you a call, Tom.”
There was a long pause on the wire. Then Tom said pointedly, “Don’t you think it’s time we worked together to move some of your paintings, Selena? It’s difficult to sell your work when I have none to show in the gallery. We had some success from the exhibit and those two social affairs, but sales are lagging. I’m only doing my job in trying to pursue all possible avenues.”
Selena let out an audible sigh. She supposed he was right. “What favor?”
“I’d like to drive up there tomorrow. Perhaps we could take Hightower to dinner. Get to know him, talk up your work, you know the kind of thing I mean. Would you be able to set it up?”
The last two times Selena had seen Alexander Hightower, she’d been in a fit of rage. Her interest in him now had nothing to do with his role as the representative of the American collector. And her emotions concerning him were so confused at the moment, she didn’t want to encounter him right away, much less set up a meeting with Tom Perkins involved.
“I don’t think so, Tom. I…I haven’t been feeling well lately.”
“Perhaps you could give me his number, then?” Tom’s tone of voice revealed his irritation. “I’ll try to set it up myself.”
“I…I don’t think I have it,” she lied, strangely wanting to protect Alex from Tom’s avaricious invasion.
“I can get it from the telephone company, then, I suppose. But I am going to set it up. For tomorrow. And Selena,” he added, a hint of menace in his words, “I expect you to be there.”
Alex left Eleanor’s house with a much lighter heart than when he’d arrived. At least now, he believed, he had an ally and a trustworthy confidante as he moved forward in his inquiry into the authenticity of Matka’s letter.
If he could lay his hands on it.
He stopped back by the nursing home, but it was after nine o’clock, and the nurse at the desk informed him that the old woman had gone to bed. His own fatigue began to creep up on him, and he drove with extra caution as he made his way up and down the narrow roadway leading back to Haworth.
At the edge of Stanbury he was tempted to turn into Bridgeton Lane, but thought better of it. He needed to regroup his energy, clear his thinking, before confronting Selena again.
If she would give him the time of day.
When he finally opened the door to his tiny flat, Alex wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. Eleanor had insisted he stay for the evening meal, and the two had talked eagerly about the letter, Gypsies, and the possibility that Emily might have encountered Selena’s great-great-something ancestor. In addition to finding appropriate resources for the forensic study of the artifact, Eleanor had also promised to look into the history of the Welsh Gypsies and their possible forays into Yorkshire in the mid-1800s.
Alex walked past the table and into the postage-stamp-sized kitchen and saw that the red light was blinking on his answering machine. His heart skipped a beat. Selena?
But when he heard the message, he scowled.
“Dr. Hightower, Tom Perkins here. Perkins Galleries. I will be in Stanbury tomorrow to visit with Selena about a commission she is working on, and I would like to invite you to be my guest for dinner. Perhaps I could be of assistance to you in placing one or more of her paintings in the collection of your American friend. I’ll be leaving the gallery shortly, and will be out for the evening, so there is no need to return this call. Dinner say sixish at the Lion and the Bull in Keighley?”
When pigs fly, Alex thought. He’d planned to see Selena tomorrow himself, to clear the air about the Bonnell thing and see if he could get her to talk rationally about the images in her paintings. He wanted to explain why he’d gone to visit Matka and about his suspicions as to who the author of the letter might be. He wondered what time Perkins would arrive from London. It was two and a half hours by train, perhaps as much as four by car. Alex figured he had until noon.
Depressed by the prospects of the following day, he showered quickly and climbed into bed, where he spent the night in a fitful sleep. The sun was already above the rooftops the next morning when he was awakened by the telephone. At first he was tempted to let the machine pick up the message, but if it was Selena, he didn’t want to take the chance on missing her.
“Hello?” he answered, his voice still sleepily sluggish.
“Hightower? Tom Perkins. Did you get my message?”
“Uh, yes, but you see, I will be unable—”
“Before you beg off, let me share one fascinating discovery I have made recently about Selena’s surrealistic series. She has never told me much about their origin, and so I had never considered that the little fragment of a letter she paints into each one had any meaning…”
Tom Perkins now had Alex’s full attention. “What do you mean?”
“One of my, uh, colleagues has pointed out to me that the messages might have some meaning if they were put altogether. Selena has verified this and told me she plans to paint only as many paintings as it takes to complete the message. Don’t you see, this will make this series a very special collection. One I’m sure your client wouldn’t want to miss out on.”
“Did Selena tell you what the message said?”
“Something about a farewell note from
a lover. I admit I was not paying much attention at the time. She took all her work back to Stanbury with her after the exhibit, so I haven’t been able to work out the puzzle myself, but I plan to copy the messages while I’m there today. Which reminds me, I’d better be off. It is a long drive. So we’re on for tonight, then?”
Alex wanted to hang up on the disgusting little man, but he couldn’t. And he knew he had no choice but to meet him for dinner and try to dissuade him from pursuing his investigation further.
“I’ll meet you at the Lion and the Bull at six,” he replied unenthusiastically.
He settled the receiver heavily in its cradle, wishing he had Selena’s number. He dialed for information, but the number was unlisted. So he made coffee and dressed quickly, more anxious than ever to talk to Selena before Tom showed up.
But three-quarters of an hour later, when he arrived at the old farmhouse, the Land Rover was not in the driveway. Discouraged, Alex returned through the streets of Stanbury, driving slowly and keeping an eye out for her vehicle.
No luck.
He drove into nearby Keighley, thinking perhaps she’d gone to market there, but again there was no sign of the old car.
Discouragement turned to alarm.
Perhaps, he thought, trying to reassure himself that she was all right, she stayed over with her grandmother. Alex returned to his flat and placed a call to the Sunnyside Nursing Home. The volunteer who answered the phone happened to be Margaret, who remembered him from the birthday party.
“No, Selena didn’t stay in the guest quarters, and so far she hasn’t been in today,” she replied to his anxious inquiry.
“Please, if she shows up, give her this number,” he said, and added, “Tell her it’s urgent.”
Morning moved toward noon. Two trips back to Bridgeton Lane produced no Selena. And there was no blinking message light to greet him when he returned from both excursions. By one o’clock Alex became seriously concerned, but he decided not to risk an encounter at the studio with Tom Perkins, who possibly had made it to Stanbury by this time.
