* * *
I WALKED UNTIL I reached the Monk’s House, which was shrouded in darkness. The Sewells, like most of the other servants, had not yet returned. Only one light burned in one of the upper rooms—Mr. Brontë’s room.
Would he be preparing Ned’s lessons or reading a letter from Charlotte or Emily? There was a chance he was tinkering with his poetry. Whatever the pattern of his solitary hours, he would set everything aside were I to come to him, were I to let him see me with my face red and tears in my eyes. And it wouldn’t just be for manners’ sake. He would understand.
But I couldn’t go in, could I?
Just about visible through the gloom was the white statuette of the monk himself. The figure, hood worn so low it covered his face, had watched over the entrance to the Monk’s Lodge for centuries from his niche above the door. One of his hands was raised, making the drapery of his robes uneven. I hadn’t thought it before, but perhaps his hidden gesture was a warning or a threat, not a blessing.
The front door opened at my touch. I stepped inside.
It looked the same: narrow, uncarpeted, with low, dark beams and an uneven central staircase. The hallway was empty except for a stand, which held a broken umbrella and a pair of Tom Sewell’s discarded boots.
I had not been in the Monk’s House above a handful of times since the morning after our honeymoon. Edmund had led me by the hand from building to building and from room to room of my new home.
“You are mistress here, and here, and also here,” he’d said. “The bells of Holy Trinity have been ringing out your arrival. They will fête you in the villages.” He twirled me so hard I nearly fell, but then caught me just in time and pushed me up against the wall to kiss me.
I gave the place little notice then, for all it was a fine house, beautifully preserved and unmistakably English, with its sloping roofs and lattice windows. I’d cared only for the Hall. I would drape curtains fit for the stage in my dressing room just to see Mother gasp at the expense. I’d take inspiration from the Venetian frescoes I’d just seen for our dining room. I thought then they’d never fade from my memory. And I’d commission a great fountain to make a feature of the stew pond.
“It’s allegorical,” I would say with a wave of my hand, when my unmarried friends came to marvel at my good fortune. “Edmund, my husband, can explain the mythological subject.”
But a month later, I was pregnant, sick to my stomach, and fretful when I slept. My grand schemes evaporated faster than Edmund’s ardor and sounded as distant as Italy’s opera houses. Soon I was unable to either sit or stand with ease, and the doctor prescribed rest. My own mother came to nurse me, and Edmund’s mother extended the time she was to live with us, reclaiming her dominion over the household. She, just as domineering then as she’d been tonight, hung floral chintz curtains in my dressing room, in the very same material she now had in her own.
“Mr. Brontë?” I called from the bottom of the stairs, hanging on to the wooden banister, but afraid to venture any farther, get any closer.
He didn’t answer.
I climbed the first step with my left foot, as always. The habit brought me some comfort, but a lump was rising in my throat.
The second. The house gave a great groan. It knew I was here.
This was foolish.
The third, taking two steps this time, regardless of the pattern.
I would go to him. And then?
I paused. Something had caught on my hand. A splinter.
He would understand if only I could find the words with which to confide in him.
I climbed again.
Other young men might think it improper, my coming here, but he would not care for such niceties. Our conversation in “the woods” had confirmed this. And what was it the Reverend Brontë had said? Mr. Brontë and his sisters were children raised by the moors.
I cupped my eyes with my hand to protect them from the light that streamed across the landing. His door was ajar.
Maybe when he saw me, he would take me in his arms, and I would have no choice but to melt into him. His kisses would be fevered like my bridegroom Edmund’s, drinking deep of me, his hand guiding me by the waist, drawing me down.
“Mr. Brontë,” I stuttered, rounding the door.
But it wasn’t Mr. Brontë, or at least not the strong, willful, sure version of him I had conjured up.
The tutor was lying on a low and threadbare couch. His head was thrown back, his shirt open at the neck and stained with something yellow, and an empty bottle was discarded by his side.
“Mr. Brontë!” I repeated, catching onto the doorframe to support myself.
He was drunk.
Mr. Brontë raised his head, looking the wrong way, to the side, at first, before seeing me. “Lydia!” he cried, flinging his arms wide in welcome.
I froze. How dare he?
“Lydia Gisborne,” he said, hissing out the “s.”
Which of the servants had told him my maiden name?
“Join me!” he cried. He grabbed the bottle and offered it to me, upside down.
“Mr. Brontë, I’ll ask you to address me only by my married name,” I said, feeling myself turning as red as he was, ashamed that all it had taken was a petty argument with Edmund to send me running to him.
“Lydia, you are beautiful,” Brontë said, attempting to rise but giving up when his legs did not cooperate. “I thought you’d be old, but you’re not. Or at least not to me.”
I didn’t stay to hear more. I turned and closed the door, although Mr. Brontë was in no state to follow me. Taking my dress in my hand, I raced down the stairs, skidded across the hall, and nearly hurtled into the housekeeper, Miss Sewell, as she stepped through the front door.
She let out a yelp of surprise. “Mrs. Robinson?” she said, hesitating, as if distrusting her eyes.
I was frozen, like some statue of a fleeing nymph, my weight on my front foot, my free hand reaching for the knob.
“What was that, Liz?” Her brother appeared behind her but stopped in his tracks at the sight of me. “I hope nothing is the matter, madam,” he said, removing his hat slowly, eyes exploring the darkness behind me.
His question brought me back to myself.
“The matter?” I dropped my skirts, brought my feet together, and pushed a strand of hair behind my ear that had been plastered to my face by nervous sweat. “No, yes—That is to say, nothing serious. Mr. Brontë has taken ill. A bad cold.”
“Ill?” said Miss Sewell, her morbid curiosity awakened. “Should Tom ride out for the doctor? I’ll bring him some sage and honey and take care of the boy.”
“That won’t be necessary, Miss Sewell,” I told her. “I won’t have Dr. Crosby called at every sneeze, or ‘the boy’—who, might I remind you, is a man nearly as old as yourself—bothered when all he needs is a day’s rest.”
“As you think best, madam.” She pursed her lips together and glanced at her brother.
“I just brought him some brandy to see him through the night,” I continued, hoping I was not protesting too much. “He is not to be disturbed until tomorrow luncheon at least.” I gave them each a sharp nod.
“Very good, madam,” said Sewell, stepping to the side to make room for me to leave.