The Brontë Plot (19 page)

“I disagree.” Helen laughed. “Edward Rochester had some fine qualities in the end. He simply had lessons to learn, and I expect your grandfather grew up nicely too.

“My dad had to learn deception from somewhere . . . It seems history just repeats itself.”

“That's an easy out. It exonerates your dad from responsibility. Maybe your dad needed some stability, emotional support, or something else completely and he found it in stories, but what he did with those stories was his affair.”

Helen laid a slice of cheese on an apple wedge and handed it to Lucy. “As for Ollie, we met when I was only twenty-one
and he twenty-four. We were young. He had plenty of time to mature. He may have been everything your father told you.”

“That's not that young.”

“You aren't looking back at those years across a gap of sixty-five. You'll see.” Helen smiled softly. “At twenty-four, he was bold, exciting, and annoyingly confident. He kissed me within ten minutes of our meeting, right there in the jewelry store when Mr. Jones stepped to the back, and was so certain, so sure.”

“But earlier you mentioned a ledge?”

“He was bold and a risk-taker. I was only playing at it, trying to keep up in a game I didn't understand. But he took care of me and I do think he truly loved me. When I walked out that last night, I didn't know it was the end, but he did. Letting me keep the watch was a conscious choice on his part.” Helen set down her glass. “Yes, if anyone could reinvent himself, Ollie could.”

Lucy sat back and closed her eyes. She felt herself at a crossroads, and the need to make a choice pressed upon her. The lightness of helping Helen find gifts and discover herself, of joining in a moment that had brought Helen laughter and delight, felt strangely distant. Heaviness and shadow had replaced it, as if footsteps echoed down a dark corridor and, against her will, Lucy followed.

She opened her eyes. “I feel as though, in many ways, I'm a trial run before you share with your family. I'm safe.” Lucy slowed her voice. “I can't judge you, but this is hard.”

Helen considered her statement. “You're right. I think if we hadn't met, I wouldn't be here. James mentioned your
name, and it niggled and grew and wouldn't leave me alone. Then once we met, waves of memory rolled over me, and there wasn't a choice but to accept it all.”

Helen sighed. “I hadn't thought what it would mean for you, but I knew, somehow I knew you needed to be here. So why not let it work both ways? As I said at the coffee shop, you can talk about your life and your dad with me.” She slowed her voice to mirror Lucy's. “I won't judge you.”

Lucy leaned back. “So much about my dad is coming back to me and I don't know what's true. The only thing I know for certain is Dad called England home. His mother was from here, died here, and his best memories came from here, never Chicago. And I only know that because he never had to say it. He'd get this glow when he talked about it, and his accent, all Chicago, would morph into a beautiful, lilting English one. I used to make him tell me stories or read English authors so he'd slip into it. Even then I knew that was honest. Beatrix Potter was the best, I think, because his own mother read them to him as a child.”

“That's lovely and sad at the same time.”

“I learned to watch him, watch people really, and learn the cues rather than listen to their words. And now, I feel, rather than using that ability to discern truth, I use it to get my way. I'm more like him than not.”

“Childhood lessons, favorites, skills . . . They shape us.”

“They do.”

Helen laid her hands on the table. “I said this was
our
trip and I sense Beatrix Potter was important in your life as well. Perhaps I was too hasty. Shall we add the Lake District to our itinerary after all?”

Lucy startled. “No. I was only reminiscing. I— Let's enjoy today. We can talk about that later.” The bread crumb she'd inadvertently dropped fell squarely on the trail to Bowness, and it felt ugly, dirty, and obtrusive. She swept it away.

Lucy looked up the street. The slight hill allowed her to see all the way to the bend at the top. It was Saturday and the center of Portobello Road was full of carts and vendors. People spilled from the shops along the road and wove through the center stalls.

“This isn't the place for books, not like Charing Cross Road, but I did find a few shops. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. And I want to look for gifts.”

“Me too. I've only found a snow globe for one friend and it won't go over well if she's the only one who gets a gift.”

“That never goes well. My grandchildren won't understand if there isn't a little something in my suitcase either.”

They wandered up the street in a lazy fashion. Lucy snacked on crepes from a vendor and Helen purchased a blue cashmere scarf that matched Molly's eyes.

“Here's one of the booksellers.” Lucy squinted as the bright light of the street dimmed inside the door of the antique emporium—a series of booths arranged in hallways within connected buildings.

“Look here.” Lucy picked up a tan leather-bound book. “
The Vicar of Wakefield
. I love this one. It's so over-the-top and delightfully formal.” She ran her hand over the worn cover. It
was well moisturized and the scratches had been rubbed and softened.

An elderly gentleman in a wrinkled oxford and cardigan sweater stepped toward her. She waved the book to him. “You take good care of these.”

“I love each and every one.”

She ran her finger over another title. “I can tell.”

“Do you collect books?”

“I read them. I sell them, much like you do, in Chicago, but no, I don't collect them.”

“If you love them, that's all that matters.” He laid another on the counter.

“I do . . . I do love them.” The admission wasn't new, but it brought James to mind and the night he'd told her that she devalued them.

As she held the tan volume in her hands, she recognized that, while she'd said she loved them, she hadn't in fact enjoyed books for a long while. Somewhere along the way, they had become commodities to sell and perhaps forging inscriptions had also been more about their monetary value than she thought or was willing to accept. How much changed in a life, in a person, when one wasn't paying attention?

The man had continued, unaware he'd lost her. “. . . I can't make as much profit on them as I used to.” He gestured to the shelf behind him. “There's much more interest in silver, glass, and trinkets like this.” He picked up a silver and leather snuffbox. “Very popular in the late nineteenth century and coming back in the last several years.”

“You'd think we'd all know better about tobacco.” Lucy
noted several thimbles within his collection. “Those are lovely. May I see the one on the far right?”

He reached in and pulled out the tiny thimble. It had simple scrolling above the dimples and barely fit on her pinky finger.

Lucy whispered to Helen, “Sid would like these . . . Displayed in a wooden dish or something like a nineteenth-century needle box.”

“I used to love to sew . . . You're good at this. I understand why Sid raved about you on the phone that day.”

“I always thought my gift lay in procurement, in the books and keeping him organized, but now . . .” As Lucy fingered the thimble and turned back to the books, her eye caught a whiskey pourer.

“James!” She picked up the delicate glass bottle by its tiny circular handle and flipped the sterling lid up and down. “He'd love this. Did you know he drinks scotch? Only single malt. He's sort of snobby about it, really.”

“That's my fault. Charles and I gave him a bottle for his twenty-first birthday.”

Helen pointed to the bottle. “Do you have two of these?”

The gentleman's face lit. “I have a matched set.” He bent down and pulled two from the display case. Small engraved plaques hung from delicate silver chains around the bottlenecks.

“Perfect.” Helen touched the plaques. “I think Charlie might enjoy one too.”

As Lucy handled the purchase details, Helen walked farther into the emporium. She was almost out the other end by the time Lucy caught up with her, carrying a small bag. “I
didn't have them shipped. He wasn't equipped for that and I have plenty of room in my suitcase.”

“Did you get your little book too?”

“I did. It's so lovely. I'll end up putting it in our case for sale, but I'll get to read it first. There's even a small picture of when Burchell makes his great reveal and solves everyone's problems. I adore that moment.”

“I've never read it.”

“Well, during our drive to Haworth, we can start.” Lucy grinned. “I'll read to you.”

“I'd like that.” Helen stopped at the top of the street. “Is it that way?”

Lucy knew exactly what she meant. “About five blocks. Long ones though. If you want to walk, we should start. Or I could text Dillon.”

“Let's walk. It'll settle my nerves.”

They crossed Notting Hill Gate and turned onto Kensington Church Street. They walked two more blocks, without talking, and soon they found themselves standing in front of a small flat.

Lucy chuckled. “I think when it's four floors high, it should be called a ‘vertical,' don't you?”

Helen stared at the house. “This has been a good day, Lucy, two good days. I feel as though they've led me to this moment and I thank you for that.” She peered at Lucy. “I'm sorry for the pain I've caused, but I needed you here.”

“You're welcome.” Lucy drew her eyes from the building and leveled them at Helen. “Are you ready?”

“I am.” Helen nodded. “It's a shame I didn't do this years ago. I wonder what might have been.”

“What do you mean?”

“Secrets always have a price, even if only for ourselves. And this one has cost me. I don't think I knew how much until . . . recently. That's the very sad part.” She lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall.

“What will you tell them?”

“I haven't decided. Nothing sounds right.”

The bright-blue door opened immediately and there stood a man in his midforties sporting an anxious expression. “Mrs. Carmichael?”

“You must be Edward. Edward Parrish?”

“I am. Come in. Come in.” He retreated into the narrow hallway. To the right it opened into a large living room with a beautiful enclosed garden behind the French doors. The room was pale lavender with a yellow, purple, and grey Aubusson rug. “My wife will be right up. She's in the kitchen preparing tea.”

“You didn't need to go to any trouble for us.”

“Trouble? If what you wrote was true, it's worth some trouble.” He led them into the room. “Please. Please sit.”

Lucy sat in a small straight-back chair by the door, letting Helen cross in front of her to the couch. “Your home is lovely.”

“Thank you. We moved here about five years ago after our son left for school. It's become a wonderful home for us. The kitchen is downstairs with a small parlor. Clara and I spend most of our time there or above in the study . . .” He paused. “I don't think I've sat in here since Christmas.”

Edward's wife entered with a delicate teapot and four cups and saucers resting on an enameled tray. A small plate of cookies tilted on the edge.

Lucy jumped up. “May I?”

“Oh . . . I thought I was going to lose that. Thank you.” She set the tray down with a clatter as Lucy caught the cookie plate. Edward made hasty introductions then fell silent as Lucy helped Clara pass tea and cookies.

Once everyone was settled, all eyes turned to Helen. “I should begin.” She laid down her cup and Lucy heard it gently rattle within the saucer. Helen reached into her handbag and pulled out the gold watch, dangling it from its chain.

Edward reached out his hand and then drew it back. “May I?”

“Of course.” Helen offered the watch to him. “Your family name is on the cover, and if I'm correct, all the initials inside line up with your ancestors.”

Edward ran his fingers over the case, opened it, shut it, opened it again, and finally looked up with moist eyes. “AGP. Augustus Grant. EDP. Edward Dunning. TMP. Theodore Moore, my grandfather. My own father's aren't here. The watch went missing during the war and he . . . He was born in '43.”

“Did they lose their home in the bombings?”

“No, but they moved, probably five or six times, during those years. Things were lost.” He held the watch in his palm. “But this is it. He never saw it, but he described it to me as his father had to him.” Edward passed the watch to his wife. “I could've described it perfectly. And Daniel, my son, knows it too. How silly is it that three generations have never seen that watch and yet we all know every scroll and every line?” He reached to pull it back as if it might become lost again. “But it's here. It's here.”