The Brontë Plot (28 page)

“We'd rather just wander, if we may.” James spoke before Lucy could. “Is that good with you?”

Lucy nodded and they crossed the front hall into the dining room. She could feel a different vibration in the floor now—the footsteps of three girls, three young women walking round and round the delicate mahogany table. She could almost smell the melting wax and the closed stuffiness of the room as the sisters paced, reading aloud, brainstorming, editing, and creating their stories.

It was the same table around which, after Emily and Anne's deaths, Charlotte paced alone. The thought pricked Lucy's heart. It felt familiar as if she, too, had paced alone for far too long.

Lucy started talking, not caring if James was listening or not. There were simply things to say. Things she needed to share.

“My dad always read to me. That's about all I truly remember about him. Every night and sometimes after school while I ate a snack. After he left I continued. I started reading the Brontës' books when I was in middle school. Part of me thought it'd bring him back; he'd sense that those moments were going on without him and miss them. It was silly, but I was just a kid.”

She walked around the table. “He lived through books, through story. That's partly why I loved our reading time together. Fiction and reality blurred and it felt magical. I could
be
Cinderella or the mice, or Peter Rabbit and his sisters, or
Frog and Toad . . . And that's all he sends, like you said, those books that pull the strings annually. And I dread each birthday and each book, fearing he'll either ruin another story by tying it between us or he's finally forgotten me and won't send one at all.”

At the landing, Lucy stopped and turned back to the dining room. “I read that their father, Patrick, would stop here each evening to wind this clock and use the moment to yell a reminder to not stay up too late. It was his ritual, but it was also theirs—that late-night creative time.”

“That sounds like you.” James raised his eyebrows. “You used to call me when you couldn't sleep and were bored of reading.”

“I shouldn't have woken you. Sorry about that.”

“I liked it.” James didn't wait for her to reply, but climbed the stairs to the second floor. There they entered a larger room at the front of the house. It boasted two windows facing the street.

Lucy read the sign. “Charlotte moved in here after her brother died. Her father gave it to her and he stayed in the back bedroom. She was the breadwinner by then and, I think, he was paying her respect.”

James squeezed her arm and wandered away alone.

Lucy stayed. She let her eyes roam the room with its small desk, stiff, straight chair, and bed, and she thought of all the stories penned here.
Jane Eyre,
a journey of self-realization, passion, and promise . . .
Shirley,
emotionally distant with more of an eye to social change rather than to the heart . . .
Villette
, with its pervading sense of isolation and search for
one's place. How could the Brontës, all the sisters, write such characters, write of such change and of such loss, unless they'd felt it, endured it, and suffered through it?
With Courage to Endure.

As Lucy stepped down the stairs, going carefully over each shallow step and turning her feet sideways so as not to slide over the edge, she let the stories drift through her, and as she reached the bottom step, she recalled another statement Charlotte wrote.
Human beings never enjoy complete happiness in this world.
Again, most likely true.

Lucy found herself stepping into the Parsonage's garden. James stood a few feet away, staring at a statue of the three sisters. The small notice stated that the garden remained as it was during the sisters' lifetime. Well over one hundred years and something could stay the same.
Endure.

James didn't turn as she came to stand beside him. “It's not all so black and white, is it?”

Lucy knew he wasn't talking about the Parsonage. “I guess not.”

He meandered across the lawn to an empty bench and sat. He dropped his head into his hands. “She told me a lot more too.” James rested his forearms on his knees.

“She told me that my dad wanted to be a math teacher and join the Peace Corps, but that she didn't let him. She told me that she didn't talk to my mom for the first three years of their marriage because she had wanted my dad to marry some family friend. She told me that she was too hard on her husband and my father, and even me and my sisters when we were children, because she wanted us all to learn responsibility and respect,
but that maybe she'd gone too far and there were things she'd forgotten and she was sorry. She . . .”

Lucy laid her hand on his back and he let his words drift away. After a moment of silence, she asked, “What'd you say?”

“I asked if the doctor had given her any pain meds.”

“You didn't.” Lucy pursed her lips to stop a laugh as she dropped onto the bench next to him.

The left side of James's mouth curled up. “I did and her eyes shot daggers. Have you seen when they actually change colors?”

“Sky to steel and back again. Happens in a heartbeat.”

“Exactly.” James spun to her. “It took a few minutes and an apology for them to morph back to sky. But what did she expect? I'm not her confessor; I'm her grandson.”

Lucy realized her hand still rested on his back. She slowly removed it and placed it in her lap. “You should have seen her after we returned the watch. She practically floated down the block and then we went to her favorite restaurant and drank champagne.”

“Grams?”

“Grams.” Lucy tilted her head. “Look, I'm not the best judge between truth and fiction, but this is all very real to her and she wants to share it with you. There's definitely going to be a little bad with all that good because, as you say, it's not so black and white. But, James?”

She waited until he sat straight and locked eyes on her. “When she fainted, it was scary. She went ghost white and hit those stairs like a stone. You need to listen to her.”

James dropped his head back into his hands and didn't
reply. After a minute or two, he flopped back. “I feel I owe you an apology.”

“Me? Why?”

“Everything.” James lifted his shoulders then lowered them slowly and purposefully as if knocking all the kinks out or resetting himself. “You're right and you were before too . . . I didn't listen back then . . . to you. I'm sorry. I heaped my own issues on you and that wasn't fair.”

Lucy reached for something to say and landed on “Thank you?”

He chuckled at her tone, but only said, “You're welcome.”

Chapter 26

L
ucy squirmed in her seat. She and James parted ways amicably after the Parsonage, but as the afternoon progressed, she grew fidgety all over again. He was right; they needed to talk. There was more to say. She kept asking herself why it mattered what he thought—logic told her it didn't any longer, but her heart beat a quick retort.

“Here she is.” James escorted Helen into the dining room, looking every bit the dashing grandson and hero.

Lucy released a long-held breath and pulled out the empty chair next to her. She kissed Helen's cheek. “You look very well rested.”

“Thank you. I feel much better.” Helen sat down and James pushed her chair in, then assisted Lucy with hers.

“Grams, are you warm enough?”

Helen tapped her finger on the table. “You need to stop fussing over me.”

“And she's back.” James threw the comment to Dillon and Lucy.

“I haven't seen you since James arrived.” Helen reached over and patted Lucy's hand. “I hope you haven't been avoiding me.”

“I didn't want to interrupt your time with him.” Lucy captured Helen's hand within her own. “But I shouldn't have stayed away. I'm sorry.”

“As long as you've been well . . . He's been reading to me, but he doesn't do the voices nearly as well as you do.” Helen surveyed the table. “Tell me all that I've missed.”

Lucy started with the previous afternoon and carried Helen into the morning with their redecorating plans and furniture moving; James and Dillon chimed in and took all the credit. Lucy moved on to the lunch at Wuthering Heights Inn; James raved about the fish and chips, the beer plaques covering the walls, and even Helen's “bedwetters.”

Lucy then shared about the Parsonage and James gave her the moment, not interrupting once. She retraced her steps and described every detail, inviting Helen into the rooms and into the emotions. “I've loved the books, and the characters have always felt so real to me, but now the authors feel more that way too. I touched the table where they ate, my shoes clicked on their same floorboards, Charlotte's desk looks just like the one I sit at day in and day out in Sid's shop and polish every Thursday.”

She leaned closer to Helen. “That quote from Westminster Abbey fits in a way I hadn't realized either. ‘With Courage to Endure.' That's what they gave to their characters, their full experience. And those young women had so much courage. They lived in isolation; they feared living without love; they had responsibility and caretaking for their sick and violent
brother; they had to find work . . . Nothing was easy. They all had something to say about their lives, and they said it with strength, through those stories. But I've often gotten so absorbed in the drama, I missed the choices behind them, the very real lives behind them.”

Lucy shifted her focus to James and Dillon and found them slightly dazed. “Okay, fine. It was a nice house.”

James laughed. “That's exactly what I thought.”

“Don't tease her.” Helen softened her words with a smile. She turned back to Lucy. “I think I would've felt the same way.”

“We could go tomorrow before we head back to London, if you feel well enough,” Lucy offered.

“These couple days have made clear the things I must do.” Helen reached over and grasped James's hand, which rested on the base of his wineglass. “I know you want me to rest, but I'm ready. Let's go home tomorrow.”

“Another day isn't going to hurt, Grams. Do you want to stay, rest by the fire, and see the Parsonage?”

“It's time to go.” Helen's tone brooked no opposition.

“Of course.” James glanced to Dillon and Lucy. “You two okay with that?”

“Absolutely,” Lucy chirped. She caught Dillon's questioning stare as he agreed as well.

The conversation dwindled into light banter as they ate grilled beef medallions with small potatoes and bright fresh peas.

When all the plates sat empty, James cleared his throat and waited for everyone's attention. “I quit my job today,” he announced.

“You what?” Lucy's head bounced up.

“I switched departments rather than jobs.” James drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. “I sent an e-mail to the partners requesting a full transfer to the pro bono division. I'm fairly certain I heard Hendricks cheering from Hawaii.”

“I'm so proud of you,” Helen said at the same time Lucy asked, “What made you do it?”

James beamed an acknowledgment to his grandmother and answered Lucy, “I've wanted this for a long time, and the reasons to delay were getting weak, if they ever had any true validity in the first place.”

He leaned forward with as much eagerness as Lucy had felt moments before. She recognized it in his eyes as he continued. “This group is doing some amazing work with an NGO in India to secure land rights for women. In one region it simply required a second line on a contract's signature page. There was no cultural deterrent. It took a year of navigating red tape to add it to land deeds, but now that it's there, wives simply sign and,
BAM!
They've got the land if something happens to their husbands. It's changing lives.” James sat back. “I want to be part of work like that.”

He peeked at Lucy, who instinctively reached across the table to grasp his hand. He stiffened. She realized her mistake and hastily withdrew it.

The kitchen door pushed open, saving Lucy from further embarrassment. Bette was approaching with her arms full of dishes. Dillon popped up to help her with the plates, fresh forks, and a domed cake.

“What's this?” Helen asked.

“Sticky toffee pudding in honor of your recovery. Mum made it for you.” She set it on the table. “She made it for all of you.”

“You'll join us, won't you?” Helen waved her fingers to the empty table beside them. Dillon grabbed one of its empty chairs and swung it over for Bette.

“Pieces for everyone?” Bette asked.

At four nods, she sliced the cake. And with three sets of eyes on Bette, Lucy was able to observe the table more closely. The chatter danced among them as Bette passed out generous slices.

Helen's eyes were light, a peaceful and serene blue.
Summer Sky.
They were as wide as they had been at Sally Clarke's; her mouth was poised in a small, almost secret smile, and her hand rested within James's.

James looked better too. Eyes that had flashed anger at lunch and confusion at the Parsonage seemed quiet now. Although he was probably still suffering from jet lag, the lines around his eyes appeared softened. Lucy smiled as he bit his lip. He did that when he was nervous. She recognized the same gesture in herself and had once thought it serendipitous and special that they shared it.

Lucy's eyes trailed over to Dillon, who helped Bette with an eagerness and tenderness that spoke of more than a passing flirtation. James was wrong—love can start at first sight and it can last. Watching Dillon and Bette, she refused to believe otherwise.

And Bette? Dillon was right. She was sunshine. She burst with openness and energy and, even more so, with love. And
she had dimples. Lucy was honest enough to admit she envied those.