The Brontë Plot (17 page)

“I'm simply saying that you being here with his grandmother is a game changer.”

After dinner, dessert, and a small glass of Chenin Blanc, Dillon offered a bus then a cab, but Lucy refused, preferring to walk and gently lean on his arm. They ambled down Regent Street back toward Piccadilly and turned to the right. They chatted about everything and nothing, but with the unspoken and seemingly mutual agreement that James needn't be canvassed further.

They simply enjoyed the cool night and the soft breeze that carried the scents of fish and chips, spices and ale, mixing with the warmed stuffy air blowing from the street grates leading to the Underground. Despite the lateness, the streets felt as crowded as they had during rush hour, but the tenor had changed from bustling traffic to the evening's frenetic sounds of boisterous laughter as friends streamed out of restaurants and pubs, shouting plans overly loud and slightly drunk.

Before Lucy knew it, she stood wobbling on the hotel's front step.

Dillon gave her a squeeze around the shoulder. “I think your feet finally hurt.”

“They do.” She shifted her weight. “And I'm exhausted.”

“Sleep well, Lucy.” Dillon backed away.

“Thanks, Dillon.” She called after him, “See you in the morning.”

Chapter 17

T
he morning was dark and rainy. Lucy sensed it the instant before she opened her eyes. She wondered if rolling over would make the day, and all reality, drift away in a dream—a Brontë dream, preferably, overlaying reality with romance and filled with a larger-than-life hero stomping to her rescue through the storm.
Who would come? Probably a Heathcliff
. . . She jumped out of bed.

She drew the shades, wondering what to do next. She found a starting point.
Smile. You're in London.
She quickly pulled on a black knit skirt, black tights, and ballet slippers. The sweater proved more difficult. She touched the dark orange V-neck. The one James said lit her hair on fire—in a good way. She then fingered the softness of a light purple cashmere crewneck. It seemed a purple day, veering to a soft lavender, so she pulled it over a crisp white blouse, tugging the cuffs and collar out stark and proud. She plugged in her straightening iron, but without a proper convertor, it was searing hot within seconds. She unplugged it, let it cool, and
used it as best she could without singeing each strand before tying it all back in her usual ponytail.

Grabbing her bag, her coat, and the monstrously large brass key, she was heading to the door when her phone rang.

“Sid?”

“Good morning,
men sonnenschein
.”

“German?”

“I wondered if it'd be my next language, but I'm not liking the roll off the tongue.”

“Stick with the romance languages. You've got what—only Portuguese left?” Lucy plopped onto the corner of her bed.

“Romanian too, but that's not what I called about . . . Your itinerary says you're headed to the Silver Vaults today.”

“We are.”

“Did you get the information I sent you?”

“Got it.”

“Do you know what she's after? Because silver services are a strength for Barring and Shepherd. I've also been watching trends, and your best value will be in early to mid-Victorian. Later and you may get too fussy for her sensibility. Earlier and I doubt the value—are you getting all this down?”

“Are you aware it's two o'clock in the morning?”

“Not for you and I didn't want to miss you.” Sid paused. “I'm well aware that I'm hovering, but isn't it exciting? Your first trip. Guiding someone to find something special. I only want to help.”

Lucy lay back. “Thank you, Sid. You just did.”

“That was easy.”

So easy
. Lucy smiled at the ceiling.

Sid continued, “You also have the War Rooms, Westminster Abbey, and Portobello Road marked for today. The market will be very crowded. Are you sure she's up for the walking?”

“She's remarkable. We walked all Bloomsbury yesterday.”

“Did she really? I find people defy my expectations all the time.”

“True.” Lucy sat up. “Thanks for calling, Sid.”

“Of course.”

Exiting her room, Lucy knocked on Helen's door.
No answer.
She quickly padded down the thick-carpeted stairs to the lobby below.
Empty
. She crossed to the small dining room opposite the bar. Amidst an intimate space of soft blue and gray, silks and pale velvets, she found Helen sitting alone at a white-linen-covered table. A cup of tea, a glass of bright juice, and a bowl of yogurt and granola sat in front of her. The entire picture evoked a sense of luxury, warmth, and longevity. Lucy pressed her hand against her stomach to squelch a rumble.
Hunger.

She hurried forward. “Have you been here long? I'm sorry if I'm late.”

Helen laid down her spoon. “We didn't arrange a time and we're not in a rush.”

Lucy touched her iPad, bringing up the day's calendar. “I've rearranged our day. The rain is to clear out by this afternoon. Let's do our underground things this morning.”

“Put that contraption away and enjoy breakfast.” Helen softened her words with a laugh.

Lucy dropped the tablet into her lap. “Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, but my grandchildren do that all the time. James is the worst.”

“He is, isn't he?” Lucy sparked at the memory then redirected herself. “I'll pull it back out after breakfast.”

A waitress came and poured Lucy a cup of coffee. “Oatmeal, please.” She then turned back to Helen and searched for a topic. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did. Thank you. And you?”

“No.” Lucy pursed her lips and absently tapped the iPad under her napkin. “I tossed around all night.”

“Jet lag can do that to you. It'll get better.”

And it did get better as breakfast was spent sharing stories. Lucy told a few childhood tales, but focused primarily on Sid, the only friend they held in common. Most of Helen's included her grandchildren, James especially, and Lucy found she could not stop her and remind her of their pact to keep James “off-limits.” She didn't want to.

As the waitress removed their plates, Helen laid her napkin on the table in front of her. “You said ‘underground things' this morning.”

“We put the War Rooms and the Silver Vaults on the list for this afternoon, but I thought we'd move them to this morning because of the rain.”

“Perfect.” Helen fingered the napkin. “What then is switched to the afternoon?”

“Being Saturday, it's a perfect day for Portobello Market. The stalls are open all along the street and if we walk up rather than down, we'll be only a few blocks from Peel Street at the end.”

“And there we are. All roads lead to Peel Street.”

The rain didn't keep anyone from the streets. They were full of bustling, noise, people, and chaos.

Every time Dillon dashed through a roundabout, Lucy hung on, not understanding how the mass of cars careening in the circle didn't collide. But they didn't. Each darted on and off as if scripted in a choreographed dance. Dillon even changed lanes within the circles, amidst motorcycles roaring around them, unconcerned.

Helen requested an indirect route so Lucy could get the “lay of the land,” as Helen called it. And from the window, Lucy spied many of the landmarks she'd marked in her notes: Tower of London, St. Paul's Cathedral, Covent Garden . . .

Lucy read the street sign as Dillon turned down Drury Lane.

“Hey, the Muffin Man lives here.”

“Hah. Never heard that one before,” Dillon called back.

He drove past the Silver Vaults with an “I'll have you right back here later” and double-backed toward the Thames, passing the Royal Opera House, before cutting down Whitehall to Churchill's War Rooms. He slid into a spot outside a massive stone building. “You're in the heart of it now. Treasury, Foreign and Commonwealth Offices across there, and Downing Street is a block that way if you want to drive by after.”

“What will you do while we're here?” Lucy looked around.

“Park the car and stay close. This exhibit's not big. It won't take you long.”

Lucy and Helen walked into the building and followed the signs to a flight of stairs leading to Churchill's underground offices. Helen stopped in front of her and didn't move.

“This is a trip into history I don't feel like taking. I added it to the list, I know, but it doesn't fit somehow. Charles and I toured it right after it opened in '84 and I don't want to go again. I'll wait if you want to see it.”

“No. Let's go onward and upward.”

“ ‘Come further up, come further in,' ” Helen quoted softly. “I haven't thought of that recently.” She peered up at Lucy, still standing two steps above her. “Westminster Abbey is across the square. I'd like to go there now, if you don't mind walking in the drizzle.”

“The nice woman at the desk gave me this as we headed out.” Lucy reached into her bag and pulled out a compact umbrella. “We're prepared.”

They walked outside and Lucy opened the midnight-blue umbrella with a bold
Dukes Hotel
logo on the side. She held it above their heads with one arm and supported Helen's hand with the other. Within a few minutes and two traffic lights, Lucy gaped at the Abbey's famous west entrance—its massive wooden doors recessed into huge stone arches, topped by detailed sculptures and flanked by two imposing towers.

“The height of Gothic architecture.” Helen's eyes flickered over the entire structure.

“It's almost overwhelming.”

“Wait until you see inside.” Helen stepped forward and Lucy rushed to pull open the door.

She stalled as the nave stretched before her. The sun pierced through the clouds and shot bolts of light through the stained glass windows. It danced across the flagstones and off the gold of the center altar, far away. It reminded her of the MacMillan vases and sent a burst of joy, then a shadow of regret through her.

She shifted her gaze to take in the rest of the Abbey. Choir stalls flanked each side, close to the altar, built from dark wood and lit by antique red-shaded lamps. The narrow sides arched
up and high with flags draped every few feet. The walls and floors were covered in stone memorials and plaques. Every square inch burst with history, memory, and sculpture.

“Every monarch since 1066 has been crowned here,” Helen whispered. “Would you like to take a tour? It's as much a national museum as it is a church. The tombs and monuments are astounding.”

“Not a formal tour. I'd rather roam on my own.”

Helen nodded. “You go where you'd like and we'll meet back here when you're finished.”

Lucy wandered around the space and, for the first time, felt something holy, outside time and larger than anything she'd ever known or understood. It wasn't peace. Peace was calm. This was active and vibrant.
Anticipation? Expectation?
She couldn't find a descriptor so she stopped trying to classify it and instead delighted in it.

As she approached the central altar, she imagined royals, dignitaries, and choirs sitting in the side-facing seats. The sun's rays made the wood glow gold and brown with shafts of red as light reflected off the cushions and lampshades. It was rich, polished, tended to, and loved. In her mind, it instantly contrasted with the dry chest left neglected in her apartment.

Lucy absorbed every detail, including the dust dancing in the sunlight. She noted each flag, each coat of arms, and each plaque. The oldest she found dated back seven hundred years, but she knew some were older. The history of this place reached farther and deeper than that. The Abbey felt solid and she wanted to sit, stay, and let the feeling grow and take root—as if she, too, could become more solid, more defined,
simply by spending time beneath its arches. She sat in one of the pews and rested.

After a few moments, the active feeling compelled her forward. She moved through an arch, around a statue, and turned the corner to find a small sign hanging from a rope:
Poet's Corner
. It was packed: the walls peppered in plaques and reliefs; the floors covered in special stones with names and designs of all shapes, fonts, and sizes; and the stained glass window inscribed with names in center panels of white amidst the bright blue, red, and green. Her writers, her beloved, all immortalized here with their stories and words that reached high, dug deep, and soared with wind and clouds.

Shakespeare stood fully formed front and center, with Jane Austen's name scrolled clearly beside him in a clean, precise font that matched her writing, and Keats and Shelley provided anchors for a wreath above Johnson and Campbell. Lucy gazed at the window and found Elizabeth Gaskell before noting Henry James, T. S. Eliot, Tennyson, Browning, Thomas, Carroll—the list went on and on—scattered like manna at her feet.

Her eye caught Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë's stone, each named individually but grouped together, as sisters should be. The words
WITH COURAGE TO ENDURE
were written in all capital letters, strong and commanding, beneath them. Lucy couldn't move.

“I thought I might find you here,” Helen whispered.

“I like that quote. It fits them . . . It's exactly what should be said.”

“True.” Helen nodded, thinking. “It fits their stories and their short lives. Each heroine made choices, faced her
consequences, and endured. Helen Graham. Shirley Keeldar. Agnes Grey. Cathy Earnshaw.” She gestured to Lucy. “Lucy Snowe. Jane Eyre always strikes me the most, but I'm biased to that story.”

“I don't know that Cathy fits.”

“Ah . . . But the children endure, and that's when the imagined story ends and perhaps the real one begins. New life. I think there's courage and endurance there too. And I think of those sisters, becoming who they were and what they did at such young ages, in such changing times but in their relative isolation.”