The Brontë Plot (21 page)

“As well I should.
Jane Eyre
. I must say it was hard to see myself so clearly in such a character.”

“It's got to be St. John. No one else is so truculent.”

Helen tapped her nose. “Yes. Me and St. John. It's when he's trying to convince Jane to marry him.”

“What?” Lucy was surprised it was the very scene she had pondered moments ago.

“You know that part. He wants her to marry him, but she'll only travel to India if she can go unattached.” Helen continued, “He was so set, couldn't see things another way, but not me. Not any longer. Spring is coming and I'm thawing. And in all sincerity, I can't bring myself to care about what comes next.”

Lucy sat back in her chair and studied the room. Helen followed her gaze. It held a handful of white-linen-draped tables and only a few of them were filled so early in the evening. Small nosegays of tight white roses sat in the center with two or three lit votives casting a warm glow on their petals. The air was faintly sweet. To catch the perfume, she had to drag in the air and savor it.

I do,
Lucy thought.
I care what comes next.

“Helen?” Lucy called.

Helen's head bounced up, startled by Lucy's anxious tone.

“I came over here and told the hostess that she'd lost our reservation. I bullied my way to this table. The restaurant hasn't gone downhill at all.”

“Lucy!”

“I know.” Lucy let her hands flutter. “Sometimes a soft word gets you what you want. And sometimes, pressing your advantage works.” Her eyes trailed to the hostess stand. The young woman rapped her pencil against her notebook, perhaps rearranging tables for that very evening or perhaps too angry to lift her head.

“Excuse me.” Lucy stood and walked toward her. The hostess
glanced up at her approach and frowned. Lucy noticed her fingers whiten as she gripped the pencil. It bent, ready to snap.

“I owe you an apology. I . . . We didn't have a reservation. I didn't want to disappoint my boss, but that wasn't your concern. I acted badly, really badly, and I'm sorry.”

The woman's eyes rounded then narrowed. “Am I to make you feel better?”

“I simply wanted to apologize.”

“You've apologized. Please enjoy your table.”

Lucy was impressed with the biting delivery. Every inflection screamed that she, in fact, wished Lucy would choke on her fruit tart and expire immediately, and with excruciating pain. Lucy offered a small gesture of agreement that she deserved no better. The hostess returned her focus to her notepad and Lucy returned to the table.

“And?” Helen took a quick sip of champagne and pushed Lucy's toward her. “You should finish that before we have to leave.”

“We get to stay. She said to enjoy our table, but I suspect she meant only you.”

“What on earth did you say?” Helen stifled a giggle.

“I apologized.” Lucy took a quick sip. “It didn't go over well, but I can't blame her.”

“I'll say not.” Helen clicked her champagne glass against Lucy's and sipped again. “How do you feel?”

“A bit like you earlier. Completely shredded.” Lucy blew out a shaky laugh. “But I think you're a little responsible for that too.” Upon reaching Dukes, Lucy found herself unwilling to go to
bed, but not eager to walk around London, even in the bright lights of Piccadilly, alone. She kissed Helen's cheek good night in the lobby and headed to the bar, settling in a bright yellow armchair in the front window. She watched the octogenarian Italian bartender, whom a guest called Gilberto, pour drinks and entertain the few men standing near him. Realizing she was staring, Lucy opened her book, more to have something to do with her eyes and her hands than to read.

“An espresso?”

Lucy looked up to find him leaning above her. “Thank you, but it'll keep me awake tonight.”

Gilberto bowed and stepped back behind the bar. Lucy laid her book down, remembering Bowness-on-Windermere and the change in plans. She opened her computer and secured reservations at the inn she'd found. Clicking the final key for “confirmation” felt far from a victory. As she sent a quick text to Dillon to tell him of the change in their plans as well, she felt Gilberto's presence once more.

This time he held a small wooden table with bottles, a lemon, and a frozen glass resting on its top. He set it down and, with a “Martini,
molto bene,
” proceeded to pour vermouth from a small silver shaker into the ice-clouded martini glass. He then added thick frozen vodka until it bubbled at the top.

“You watch this.” He peeled a small strip of lemon zest and, with a quick flick of his wrist and hip, put his full weight and effort behind cracking the peel lengthwise. The oil mist exploded over the glass and dotted Lucy's face.

She closed her eyes and drew in the fresh, bright smell. “That's amazing.”

Gilberto held the peel high then slid it, never breaking the vodka's surface tension, down the side of the glass, pushing the liquid's bubble up farther.

“It's above the rim. I won't be able to move that,” Lucy exclaimed.

“You take your first sip here. Then you move the drink.”

Lucy leaned over and took a sip, the lemon oil moistening her lips and tickling her nose. “I've never had anything like this.”

“And you only have one. On me.” He picked up the drink and carefully placed it on her side table. “My specialty.”

“Thank you.”

He bowed again and picked up his little table to move back behind the bar.

Lucy took slow sips, thinking of Helen and her gimlets, her dancing, and what was now ahead . . .
James.
Unable to follow that further, she directed her mind back to the day and other niggling images surfaced. The sun bursting through the window at Westminster Abbey.
With Courage to Endure
. The extraordinary vase Helen purchased at the Silver Vaults. The tantalizing feeling of helping Helen express her true self for her granddaughters, for her daughter-in-law. The honesty with which Helen approached Edward Parrish. His anger, his vulnerability, his loss, Sally Clarke's . . .
Oh my . . .

Lucy picked up her phone and tapped Sid's number. He answered immediately.

“I was hoping you'd call. How was today?”

“It's been a big day . . . She purchased two full flatware sets and a spectacular crystal vase with silver inlays. I meant
to send you pictures of everything, but forgot. I'll do that as soon as we hang up.”

“Excellent. Did you stay early 1700s? Or was her style more like yours?”

“Victorian? Fussy?” Lucy tried to lighten her tone. Sid would question otherwise and where would she begin? Where could she end?

“I didn't say that.” Sid's tone carried a smile.

“She said she felt daring and wanted to step out. I think that's the true Helen Carmichael so I showed her some bold early-twentieth-century designs, both Danish. She adored them. Purchased them then and there.”

“I'm impressed, Lucy, and I trust you. Well done.”

Trust
. Lucy closed her eyes. “Sid? Do you still have all three MacMillan vases?” She opened them as her question hung across the line.

“I do. I thought I might reach out to the Palmers saying I have a surprise, but I haven't gotten around to it. I'm enjoying them too much. And they're stirring up your walk-ins. Two lamps and a lovely bronze Norton have sold because folks needed a closer view of the vase, that one you said was your favorite. And there's interest in the Pol piece. If that sells, it'll top your record. The prospective buyer was in here for only five minutes.” Sid paused. “Why do you ask?”

“I . . . I really want to see them again.” Lucy opened her mouth to say more as Sid chuckled in reply.

“Considering I think you're responsible for getting them here so quick, I'll certainly keep them. We're not in a rush.”

“Thank you.” Lucy noted a large party enter the bar as the volume rose. “I have to go, Sid. I'll send you the pictures.”

She tapped off the phone.

“Enough,” she whispered to herself as she dropped her phone into her bag and took a last sip of her drink. As she discreetly waved a thank-you to Gilberto, her eye caught the painting above his head, Nelson defeating Napoleon at Waterloo. “Skirmish lost. Further down and further out.”

Chapter 20

E
arly the next afternoon as Lucy settled into the car, she bumped into a huge wicker basket resting between her seat and Helen's. “What is this?”

“While you were out gallivanting, I asked Dillon to procure a picnic for us from Fortnum & Mason.” Helen raised her brows and Lucy noticed they were penciled more lightly, giving her a wide-eyed doe appearance.

She directed her gaze back to the basket. “May I peek?”

“Of course.”

Lucy opened the top panel and pushed boxes and jars around in an attempt to see everything. “Olives, shortbread, sparkling water, nuts, lemon cookies, fruit, chocolates . . . What isn't in here?”

“There had better be some cheeses. I requested a good Stilton.” Helen pulled at the basket's lid.

“There are at least three cheeses, and crackers too.”

“Lovely.” Helen leaned back as Dillon started the engine. “Tell me about your morning.”

“My gallivanting? It was incredible. I raced around and saw everything I wanted to see.”

“If you'd let us come back . . .”

“I think you're teasing me and you don't really want to come back.” Lucy sat back. “You must know it's time to go. Even these few days feel like we're stealing from your family.”

“I'm not ready. You may not understand this, Lucy, but to go back, I need to feel strong. And I don't yet, physically or emotionally. I'm not delaying our return frivolously. I need this, and the calm of Haworth and now the Lake District appeals to me.”

Lucy studied her and accepted the truth of her statement. “Then I won't question again.”

“Thank you.” Helen reached over the basket and patted Lucy's shoulder. “Did you get to the British Library?”

“I beelined only through the Ritblat Gallery to glimpse the
Jane Eyre
and it was lovely.”

“But you also caught the Magna Carta.” Helen chortled at Lucy's head shake. “The Gutenberg Bible? Shakespeare's first folio? Handel's original
Messiah,
in his own hand?”

“When you ask that way, you make it sound like those are more important,” Lucy droned.

“Goodness, never.” Helen laughed. “I'm glad you went and glad you had fun.”

“I did. I also took the Tube to the Baker Street Station and visited Sherlock Holmes. The museum is everything you'd want it to be—kitschy, authentic, touristy, and marvelous. It made me want to reread all those stories again . . . I'm sorry you couldn't join me.”

“You needed to see everything you could.” Helen offered a small smile. “I move more slowly regardless of other factors.”

Dillon pulled onto the highway, and as the start-stop and sharp turns of city driving smoothed straight, with the engine at a constant soft thrum, Helen's eyes drifted shut and her breathing slowed and deepened.

Lucy grabbed onto the headrest of the passenger seat and leaned toward Dillon.

“Hello.”

“I overheard your morning. Did you see Da Vinci's notebook at the Library?” Dillon asked wryly.

“Ha! I actually saw that. I didn't pause, but I did pass it.”

“That's good . . . Are you excited?” He threw her a wink.

“About Haworth?”

“No, about sitting in a car for three hours and watching cows pass by.”

Lucy thumped the top of his head. “Sarcasm does not become you.”

“Yes, Haworth.”

“I'm not sure.” Lucy watched Helen. Her head had listed toward the window. “There's so much going on, Dillon. This trip is not what I expected.”

Dillon flickered a glance into his rearview mirror. “She was in a rare mood when I picked you up last night.”

“She was and I wish I could tell you about it—about all of it—but it's not my story to tell.” Lucy sat back again. “Haworth will be slower. That'll be good for her. Did you get my text about the Lake District?”

“I did. I told my boss and brought some more clothing.
Thank you for that.” Dillon peeked again into the rearview mirror. “She had me put a cane in the trunk. I didn't know she used one.”

“Neither did I.”

Hours and a good meal later, the car climbed the hill into Haworth, vibrating lightly on the cobblestone street. Lucy could feel the wind kick up and push the car in sideways bursts.

She leaned forward. “Do you feel that?”

Dillon kept his eyes on the road. “You should feel how I'm tugging on this wheel to compensate. The wind's always blowing around here this time of year, but this is strong. Look at those signs.”

Lucy looked out the window to find the colorful hand-painted signs, meant to hang over the doors, swing parallel to the ground. She also saw several placards that had been blown down or scooted sideways in the wind. Only the light lace or calico draperies hanging inside the windows draped still and peaceful.

Dillon slowed to let another car scuttle past. The shops hugged the curb, never allowing for expansion of the narrow street, and two cars made for a tight fit.

“Welcome to Haworth,” Dillon whispered into the backseat.

Lucy drew herself out of her thoughts. “Even with the wind, it's like a postcard.”

“Did you catch some of the names?”

“You mean the Brontë Falls? The sale on Jane Eyre's bath salts? Or the sign for the Brontë Bakery?”

“The Wildfell Hall Tea was always my favorite. It had a little book painted in the corner with a teacup resting on it, but it's probably blown all the way to Thornfield Tasty Treats by now.”