No way out now. Branwell Brontë had seen my naked flesh and I had not felt so exposed, but before Dr. Crosby, I was Diana, trying to shield herself from the hunter with only her hands for protection.
“Then, Lydia,” he said, mirroring my use of his forename and crouching beside me, “you have my utmost sympathy and compassion.” He took my hand between his.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my eyes welling up.
Another beat. A tear dropped.
“Mr. Brontë is a fascinating, if troubled, man,” he said.
I couldn’t react to that so held myself very still.
“And I know how hard it is to be spurned,” he went on. “To lie alone at night with only your own thoughts between you and oblivion.”
“You do?” I asked, confusion coaxing my chin from my chest.
His expression was uncharacteristically sincere. His breathing had quickened, but I did not withdraw my hand for there was not even a hint of lust in his eyes.
“But—” I cast around for the right words. “You might have married again. Chosen from any number of ladies.”
He paused. “Any number of ladies, Lydia, yes. But I am afraid the truth is that it is not women who hold delight for me.”
No wonder the discourse between us had always been so natural and easy, devoid of insidious competition or ulterior motive.
He retreated and sat on his ankles. Now he was the penitent, and I the—what?—confessor? Ridiculous. I laughed, laughed until my tears flowed with undiluted joy, and at last he joined me.
Oh, we were as vulnerable to each other now as the lovers we would never be. Ever the gentleman, Dr. Crosby had divulged his secret as a security against mine. And his admission, which might have disgusted and alarmed me before, now seemed little compared to my own baseness. It was as if he had drawn back the veil that had divided us and cast over all our past interactions a warm and unmuddied light.
I did not need him in the end. My courses came in the carriage on the way home. Not in a flood but, rather, spluttering in protest like a leaking tap that had been twisted shut.
“It is the beginning of the end of a chapter,” Dr. Crosby said when he visited me later that week. “You’ll bear no more children.”
And he didn’t ask me why my response was not relief, but passed me a handkerchief when my tears sprang up again, wrenching my heart this time, shed for the woman I had been, the girl I had lost, and the babe whom I would have murdered.
9th April 1845
Allestree Hall
My darling sister Lyddy,
I write today with somber news. Our cousin, Lady Scott, has suffered a sad misfortune. Her son, William Douglas, always a sickly child but a boy I thought out of danger since he was now sixteen, has died. Do see to it that you send your condolences to her and Sir Edward at Great Barr Hall.
Do you remember how, when you were young, you used to say you would marry Edward Scott and be a Lady? You were always an ambitious child. At times, you quite dominated me, although I was so many years older. And now look at us, Lyddy! Ah well, the remembrance of you wearing your bedsheets as a veil brought laughter to my lips even after receiving such news.
Do come and visit us in Derbyshire before long. And send word if you hear anything from Father, or his man Rowley.
I remain your ever loving and faithful sister,
Mary Evans
P.S. I was ever so surprised by your last letter. To think that the Reverend Eade is married again! Do the Thorps take it well? How irate old Mrs. Robinson must be that “dear John” is no longer loyal to the memory of Edmund’s darling sister Jane! The man may be a bore, but he has certainly gone up in my estimation.
And how sad the plight of your neighbor Mrs. Milner! I can’t imagine how terrible it must be for the poor woman to be widowed and with so many daughters to marry off.
This time, in truth, good-bye,
Mary
10th April 1845
Thorp Green Hall
My dear Lady Scott,
It is with sadness that I write to console you on the loss of your son, William Douglas.
All of us at Thorp Green Hall were very shocked.
I know, from experience, that to lose a young child is as painful as it is expected, but to lose a boy on the cusp of manhood must be intolerable.
I hope that your own health has not worsened and that your other sons take after Sir Edward with regards to their constitution.
Send my regards and regrets to him likewise.
Ever your devoted cousin,
Yours very truly,
Lydia Robinson
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I KNEW YOU’D COME to me, my darling.” Branwell’s mouth was hot against mine. His breath tasted sweet, without a hint of the liquor that had overwhelmed me the first time.
In the months since then, we’d discovered a shared rhythm when we kissed that was uniquely ours. When we paused to speak, which was rarely, we’d take it in turns to pick up the beat again. Sometimes we marveled that we’d once agonized over what felt so easy. Often we giggled together, imagining the straitlaced matrons whom we saw at church pecking their portly husbands good night with their mouths closed, never experiencing the joys that were ours for now.
“You knew nothing of the sort, Mr. Brontë.” I made a play of pushing him away. “What was so important that you summoned me?”
The May Day sun streamed through the gaping holes in the thatch, illuminating George Walker’s hovel. I closed my eyes to bask in it. The old man had been unwell for some weeks, with Miss Brontë making the journey each day to tend to him. But he’d at last succumbed to his family’s petitions, permitting his daughter-in-law, Eliza, to nurse him at her home in Little Ouseburn instead.
“He looks frail, but in truth, he’s as strong as an ox. I doubt it’ll prove fatal, even yet,” Dr. Crosby had told me as the congregation milled about in groups outside Holy Trinity last Sunday, enlivened by the temperate weather. The doctor usually attended services at St. Mary’s in Great Ouseburn but had come to Holy Trinity especially to see me. “Yet I should think his cottage will lie empty for some weeks.” He’d added this casually, without caring that Mary and Miss Brontë stood beside me. But there was a glint in his eye that made me wonder if he was delighting in the romance of helping us. I hadn’t confided in him further since that day in his parlor, for all that his attentions had been decorous and constant. Yet perhaps Branwell too had turned to the doctor with our dark secret, bound as the pair was by their Masonic brotherhood.
I opened my eyes.
“You taste of blackberries and sugarplums and claret.” Branwell kissed me again, with the confidence I had taught him—not too fast and not too soft, exploring but not invading me.
When I pulled back this time, it was with a smile that lingered on my lips. “You abuse your privileges, sir. You were to send for me only in the case of an event that might be deemed exceptional.”
Joey Dickinson, in his slow, uncomprehending way, had delivered the coded message as I strolled around the perimeter of the stew pond half an hour before. “Mr. Brontë says, missus, there’s a fox about,” he’d said. “He’ll tell Mr. Pottage.”
Branwell stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. “I did deem it exceptional, miraculous even, until I saw your face,” he said. “But now all else pales in comparison.”