“Beverley is my nom de guerre, Mrs. Robinson, and my son Henry Roxby Junior. And so, I suppose, we now meet again!” This time he succeeded in planting a kiss on my fingertips. “Not every visitor to the theater can say she has met the man behind the mask.”
“No indeed,” I said, wondering how many women had heard him use that line. I turned back to Miss Brontë. “You are quite well enough to travel, I trust?”
The governess’s cough belied her nod of acquiescence.
“Oh, but Mama, I have so many questions!” cried Lydia, still simpering at the young Mr. Roxby. “An actor’s life must be so romantic. Pray, tell us, are you often in London?”
But Henry Junior had no time to speak.
Instead, his father, our leading man, took off his cape with a flourish, and draped it over Lydia’s shoulders as if he was conferring a great honor on her.
“Ah, London!” he rhapsodized, extending an arm toward the heavens or, rather, toward the stained yellow ceiling. “What can I tell you of London?”
Lydia took a step away from him but didn’t remove the costume.
“Any visitor can’t help but fall for her charms and yet, for natives, London is more than that. It is”—he paused for effect—“in the blood!”
“I thought you were born in Hull, Father,” said young Roxby, eyes twinkling at my daughter.
She let out a peal of laughter.
“What’s this?” a gruff voice called out from behind the door. “Harry, if you have a woman in my office again, I swear to God—”
The door opened, and a man a little younger than me, who bore marks of kinship with the others although he was at least a head shorter, entered the room.
“Oh.” Nonplussed at our strange party, he stopped, taking in my fine clothes, Miss Brontë’s blanched complexion, and Lydia’s bizarre attire.
“These ladies are theatergoers, brother! The governess was taken ill,” said “Beverley,” as if this explained everything.
“My apologies,” the newcomer said slowly. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Roxby, the owner here.”
This was the juncture at which to take control.
“My name is Mrs. Edmund Robinson, and this is my daughter,” I said, unfastening the scarlet cape from around Lydia’s neck and throwing it across the desk. “Our governess fainted away in the crowd but has since collected herself. We wouldn’t presume to impose upon your hospitality, or your brother’s, any longer.”
In Mr. Samuel Roxby I had an ally. A look of understanding passed between us.
“Harry,” he said, “I hope you haven’t been regaling these ladies with your conversation when what they are in want of is a carriage? Go and dismiss the company for the night—they must rest for tomorrow’s afternoon performance. And, Henry, lad, fetch the ladies a suitable conveyance immediately.”
Lydia scowled.
“Thank you,” I mouthed, surprised that “Harry Beverley” had submitted to his brother’s orders and was bestowing a decidedly undramatic good-bye upon us.
His son followed him. A look of childish heartbreak passed between Lydia and the boy as he shuffled to the door, glancing back over his shoulder.
This was the end, then, of our brief flirtation with the theater. I would miss Mr. Brontë and our conversations, but Lydia must be taught a lesson about how to behave and how she should not. She’d have a piece of my mind once we were home. If that girl thought I would countenance another concert, party, or play in our last two weeks in Scarborough, she was in for an unpleasant surprise.
As for Miss Brontë, she was lucky her brother was such a favorite. I employed a governess to keep the girls out of trouble, not to embroil them in it.
* * *
LYDIA WAS IN DISGRACE for more than a week and banished from our holiday. But what a holiday it was! I had imagined her, alone in her room, pining after the gaiety we enjoyed and recognizing the error of her conduct, but, instead, the weather forced the rest of us to remain indoors also. Worse, we were all penned in together.
With all the predictability of an English summer, the rain dribbled down the windows of our lodgings. The heavy droplets collided and coupled, their courses meandering and irregular, almost as if they could think, protest, feel.
Old Mrs. Robinson snored by the fire. Lighting it was an extravagance Edmund wouldn’t have allowed had I requested it, as our rooms were hardly cold. Bessy was studying the sporting pages from one of her father’s newspapers, and Mary, a novel.
Miss Brontë was hunched over with her nose nearly touching a piece of paper, busy and pious as ever, Flossy wedged between her and the back of her chair. She was adding some final touches to a sketch of Holy Trinity, our church in Little Ouseburn, making a great show of her draftsmanship. She’d even announced, unprompted, that she was thinking of making a gift of her picture to Reverend Greenhow, the curate. I’d told her I hardly thought it appropriate for a spinster governess to make gifts to a married man. And at that she’d gone quiet.
“Oh, can’t Lydia join us?” said Bessy, casting the newspaper aside as soon as she’d devoured the last words of the final column. “I’m bored.”
“She cannot,” I said, looking at the window and counting the beats between the irregular tremors caused by the wind.
“The post, madam,” said Marshall, appearing at the door and proffering two damp envelopes on a tray.
I took them by the corners, so as not to stain my hands with the running ink. I was grateful for the distraction despite the fierce constriction in my chest that had come every time I’d received a letter since the one that had brought me word of Mother’s death. Neither was addressed to me. One had a Haworth postmark. The knot released and fell to the depths of my stomach, like a stone sinking through water.
“Miss Brontë,” I said, holding out the first missive without looking at her.
She scuttled over and snatched it, not even thanking me but whispering “Emily” as she made out the weeping letters. Not Charlotte, then, though I knew she’d now returned for good from Brussels to Haworth. The eccentric Emily probably wrote of storms and wildflowers, and sent snatches of poetry. She wasn’t the one who’d delight in gossip from my household about the daughter who disobeyed me. Flossy, the ungrateful pup, had rolled over to take up even more of the seat, forcing Miss Brontë to perch on the edge. She huddled over her letter, deciphering the tiny print.
The other letter I kept and examined, turning it over between my hands.
I stole a glance at the girls. Bessy had found a new occupation, in reading over Mary’s shoulder. Neither of them was looking at me.
The rain had made the mistake plausible, and did I even need an excuse to read my daughter’s letters when she treated me with such disrespect?
I took my right thumb and smeared the “Miss.” The black ink pooled in the spiraling grooves of my skin.
Who was writing to young Lydia Robinson?
I unfolded the paper and held it half an arm’s length away until it came into focus. A feminine hand—there was that, at least.
28th July 1843
Kirby Hall
My dear Lydia,
Your last letter struck me as unkind on two counts. First, because it made me long that I might be with you in Scarborough, rather than at home where everything is the same as ever. And second, because you failed to mention the date on which you return.