The Brontë Plot (32 page)

“Yes.” Lucy was at a loss for more words.

“The family resemblance is uncanny. What eyes you two have!”

Lucy couldn't help herself and softly mumbled, “All the better to eat you with, my dear.”

Her father heard her and shot her a look as Willa continued unaware, “But that hair! That must come from your
mother.” She reached over and rubbed together the ends of Lucy's ponytail.

Lucy resisted the urge to pull away.

“Are you on break?”

“Break?” Lucy flicked her neck, sending her ponytail over her shoulder, as she caught her father's fixed look. She took a moment to absorb the unspoken currents: Willa was questioning her age, checking up on Anthony, calculating the length of her stay—taking her measure. And her dad? He required backup. What had he said? Lucy couldn't remember. She could only hear another childhood command, returning after a long sleep.
Never give more information than necessary.

Lucy determined her own course. “I came for work.” She pressed her lips shut, refusing to elaborate.

Willa's eyes flashed confusion then resignation.

The conversation flowed formally while the server took their orders and delivered teas and another coffee for Lucy. They waited for their meals in relative silence.

As soon as breakfast arrived, Willa picked up her fork and approached Lucy from a different angle. “Your father says you're a reader. You read a lot in college? You must come this afternoon.” At Lucy's blank expression, Willa gently pinched his arm. “You didn't invite her? She could be our guest and see what you do.”

Willa leaned toward Lucy. “I'm sure your father told you about our tours. They're not your run-of-the-mill walks to see this and that. They're literary tours. They were Anthony's idea and they're wildly popular. Walking tours, mostly, for now.” Willa nudged Lucy's father, who opened his mouth, but she spun back to Lucy before he said anything.

“Anthony tells about the area and the sites, but he also reads to them some of the poetry and fiction that came from here. He's got readings from
Pride and Prejudice
, Beatrix Potter, some book about swallows—”

“
Swallows and Amazons
. It's an adventure story,” he interjected.

“I didn't mean it was about birds,” Willa retorted, her short hair appearing to stand on end. “But that'd be right too,” she whined before turning back to Lucy. “He talks about some of the animals around here, especially at the Beatrix Potter bits, and there's Wordsworth and Coleridge and that other guy . . . The critic. You know . . .”

“Ruskin?” Lucy added with understanding.

“Ruskin! Tourists eat it up. It's like they've been transported in time.” She snuggled into Lucy's father's side and cooed. “He is so talented.”

Lucy smiled genuinely for the first time. “I can imagine you'd be really good at that, Dad.”

“I love it.” He smiled back. “That's why I sent you the Ruskin book.” He leaned forward, gently dislodging himself from Willa's grasp. “He was a philanthropist, thinker, and the Victorian era's most famous art critic. Bringing him into the tours provides a personal opening into the art and social movements of the time—that's the Golden Age around here and he embodies that vital link between fact and fiction.”

As they ate, Lucy's father gave his part-life-story, part-résumé, and a description of their tours. Willa interjected every time he paused.

As he talked on, however, Lucy noted a side conversation—unspoken but equally informative, perhaps even more so.
Every time Willa strayed into details from his time before Bowness or to their future plans for France or Italy, Lucy's father steered the conversation back on track with a quick “Where's the jam?” or a soft “May I try your eggs?” Then a cough and a subsequent search for cough drops, or a “Where is that girl? We need more tea.” And each time, Willa lost her trail and bounced back onto the approved topic. Lucy made note of each digression.

As the plates were cleared, Willa leaned forward and snaked a hand out, dark blue nails flashing, to grasp Lucy's as she held her third “just a touch to warm it” cup of coffee. “Isn't he brilliant? Oh, and I keep forgetting that next—”

Anthony sneezed and bumped her, sloshing Lucy's coffee over the rim.

“Do you have a Kleenex? My allergies are acting up.”

“In here somewhere . . .” As Willa pulled back and dug into her brown bag, Lucy watched her dad. His steady green eyes stayed trained on Willa's search. “Here you go.” She waved a crumpled tissue at him.

He folded it into his hand. “We need to finish a few details for this afternoon. I must gather my notes and get a few supplies. I try to tailor the tours and today we have an American couple and an Australian family. All are good walkers, they say, so I want to take them up Brantfell Road. There's a rocky outcrop up there and my
Pride and Prejudice
quotes really take flight. Wordsworth too. I sometimes have to read them in Fallbarrow Park when patrons can't take the hills, but it's not the same. So if you can shift for yourself a couple hours, we can meet up and you can come along for today.”

“I'd like that.”

“Good.” Anthony stood and scooted Willa's chair back for her.

“We're leaving?” She pouted. “I could stay and chat.”

“There's a lot to do.” He reached down and squeezed Lucy's shoulder. “We'll meet you at one o'clock in the square outside Windermere Lake Cruises, right on the water.”

“I sat near there this morning. I know where it is.”

“It's a small town.” Her father slid Willa's chair out farther.

Willa bobbed her head toward Lucy. “We'll have such fun. If you're like your father, you'll be such a help today.”

Lucy's father gently pulled Willa away. Lucy picked up her mug and mopped the spill with her napkin.

Lucy wandered up the smaller side streets and bought a few gifts and souvenirs, including another snow globe and two key chains for her new collection. One was a replica of the local church and the other a tiny figurine of Peter Rabbit. She found a few more odds and ends, a bottle of gardenia perfume for her mom, and a couple more silver thimbles for Sid. Waving a small thimble on her finger, she played with the idea of keeping them for herself but suspected Sid would know just the client who would adore them. The thought made her smile.

Shopping finished, Lucy stood at the edge of the lake as several small wooden boats pushed off the shore with kids and adults swaying back and forth searching for their balance and jostling the oars. She turned back onto the sidewalk and tapped her phone, missing only one person.

It rang five times before Helen answered. “I couldn't find it in my bag. We're about to leave for the airport. Have you found your father?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“It's good. He runs literary walking tours.”

“That sounds just up your alley. Why don't you sound happy? What's wrong?”

Lucy stopped walking and stepped into a small open park. She leaned against a tree and faced the lake again in time to see one of the boats tip and two kids splash into the water. “I expected to feel like you did when you gave the watch back. It was like you were floating. In an instant, you were free. Remember at the Bloomsbury Coffee House when we declared each other ‘safe' and we could share and talk . . . You didn't need me after Peel Street, but I've found him and I . . . I'm still calling you.”

“Tell me what's going on.”

“I don't feel different. Missing him, finding him, that's been twenty years in the making and it's done, and yet, I'm not lighter. I've laid nothing down. I feel the same.” Lucy clamped her eyes shut, trying to work out the words. “Nothing is what I expected.”

“Few things ever are. Giving that watch back was the starting point for me. It wasn't the end and yes, I felt good that evening, but emotions fluctuate. You know that. They never stay. It's what we do with the facts that counts.” She fell silent and Lucy suspected she was searching for a chair.

She continued, “Did you know Charlie was here when we arrived yesterday? We talked all yesterday afternoon and then
through dinner, and it wasn't good at all. He's very angry . . . And yet, remember how I said my eyes felt wider?”

Lucy nodded, before recognizing that Helen wouldn't catch the gesture.

Helen continued, “His are today too. They've lost that tight look that he's given me for years. So I think, despite the difficulty, we are on the right road. You stay on it too.”

Lucy nodded again. “I will.”

“You aren't any more responsible for your father's choices than Charlie was for mine. I learned that yesterday; he felt such pressure to live up to what he thought I was and wanted him to be. I suspect James has suffered under that same weight. Don't you make that mistake. And as for what you said in the tea shop? Emily Brontë was wrong if she ever meant that our ancestors fix us and determine our lives and choices. People can be redeemed.”

“Maybe I was projecting.” Lucy heard a rustle as if people entered Helen's room to collect bags. “Have a safe flight.”

“James is here. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Not right now.”

“Okay.” Helen's voice dipped low and sincere. “Enjoy your visit.”

Lucy thanked Helen and slipped her phone back into her bag.
Enjoy your visit
. It seemed so simple, almost too simple, for all she hoped to accomplish here. But perhaps Helen hadn't said the words blithely. Perhaps that was the proper perspective. This was merely “a visit” and she need only enjoy it.
No more, but no less.

As she watched the lake, another boat came alongside the
capsized kids and an older man dragged them aboard. A young woman then jumped into the water, righted the capsized dinghy, and alone rowed it to shore.

At one o'clock Lucy stood at the back of the small group wanting to watch her father at work more than participate. Willa's short hair was sleek, styled, and tucked behind her ears; her outfit, sophisticated and refined; and her voice . . . Lucy almost didn't recognize her as the same woman. She spoke slowly, with more intonation and definition.

Lucy stared as Willa passed around tea in paper to-go cups to the adults and bottles of ginger beer to the kids. She sprinkled little comments among the group and soon everyone was talking and laughing—even the two new families who'd joined the tour since breakfast.

Willa glided between the women. “I love your shoes . . . Such the right choice for today . . . And you were wise to bring dark glasses. It's a gorgeous spring this year . . . Have your kids tasted ginger beer? Such a treat . . .”

Lucy had to give her credit. Each woman and child stood taller and swelled with pride at their importance, dress, and general preparedness by the time Willa stopped talking and shot Lucy's father a
We're ready
glance.

The motion sent Lucy's eyes toward her dad as well. He'd clearly been working the same magic with the men. It brought to mind Sid's advice one day as they had sat debating a sketch.
Enchant the wives and stay within budget to please the husbands. They may not care about the rooms, but they want to keep their wives happy and feel smart doing it.
Her father clearly followed the same dictum—but played it with a different hand here.

Catching Willa's look, Lucy's father raised his voice and addressed the entire group. “We are so delighted to have you join us on our little adventure today. We will start with a short walk through Bowness-on-Windermere, this lovely town with foundations dating back to 1415, as you'll see when we visit St. Martin's church. And, since you all are such strong walkers, I'm going to treat you to some special stops more abroad than the usual fare. This will allow you to more fully appreciate the romance and unique history of the area.”