In the moments since they’d left, I’d grown more certain: I had to make an end of things with Branwell. Affairs had careened too far out of my control.
“And what would be said of us then? Of you?” Edmund drew back, his passion evaporating, and shook me off like a fly. “No, Lydia, you must learn self-control and to curb your natural—” He could not complete the sentence. “Dr. Crosby could prescribe you something.”
I laughed and turned to press my palms into the wall, as if I were in labor and doubling over with the pain of it.
“Edmund.” I was not sure what to say, but hoped that by speaking his name I could convey the warmth that still spread through me at the thought of our early years, when we’d slept in each other’s arms every night in a space only wide enough for one, the closeness that comes when you know the contours of another’s mind and body as intimately as you know your own, the pattern of the hours, days, decades we’d spent together since.
“Enough!” he cried. “I am your husband, Lydia, and I command you to act in accordance with your station.” The door slammed hard behind him.
27th June 1845
Great Ouseburn
My dear Mrs. Robinson,
I have given some thought these last days to the conundrum you confided in me during our last consultation. I mean, of course, how to dispose of Mr. Brontë.
I must, in a professional capacity, beg for a report on your nerves before I go any further. Are you still confined to bed? Do send me word by the illiterate boy who bears this letter from Great Ouseburn. For appearances’ sake, yes, but also due to my very real concern for you.
I have thought, as I said, on the difficulty before you, and a solution may, at a most opportune time, have presented itself.
You will have heard, I know, that a date is set at last for the opening of the new railway line, between York and Scarborough. On the 7th of next month, that is to say in ten days, when you and your family have already arrived in Scarborough, a celebration is to be held in York in honor of the momentous occasion.
The committee has planned a great breakfast, which will be attended by many gentlemen connected to the railway. They’ll talk mechanics and dynamite, quaff champagne, and toast to the success of their investments, before waving off the train on her maiden voyage into previously uncharted waters.
A veritable bore, but it appears I must go and so, I say, should Mr. Brontë.
What could be more natural? Most of us from the Lodge will be there. What’s more, Branwell is a former railway man and is sure to see some old acquaintances. That engineer friend of his, Gooch, for one, is sure to attend.
And you? Why not indulge your tutor’s hobbyist interest in locomotives and bid him stay at Thorp Green Hall once he returns to you? With no governess for the girls, give Master Ned a holiday from his studies likewise and enjoy Scarborough with a smaller party than in previous years.
I will watch Brontë and ensure he doesn’t overdo it at the breakfast. It wouldn’t do for him to give in to his natural exuberance, which he’s given rein to a little too liberally in our recent meetings. And I will attempt to impress upon him, subtly at first, that if he cares for you, he must resign before you return from Scarborough and put an end to all close communication between you.
I have never been of the belief that absence makes the heart grow fonder. A separation of a month is just what the boy needs to see reason. I will school him to make the right choice.
Send me word of how you like my plan.
I remain your humble servant,
Dr. John Crosby
27th June 1845
Thorp Green Hall
Dear John,
I am as well as can be expected and better for receiving your letter. It is the very thing. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your friendship and assistance. It is a kindness to us both. Yes, to Mr. Brontë too. For he needs constant supervision to keep him from the drink. It is best that he go home to Haworth where his father and sisters may care for him.
Yours very truly, with gratitude,
Lydia
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“YOU HAVE TO COME with me, ma’am. Now.” Panic was written across Marshall’s wan face.
“What is it? It is not—? Is he here?”
She nodded, and I gripped her arm tight.
“Lydia, must you whisper with the servants?” my mother-in-law called across the front room of our Scarborough lodgings. She was lying on the chaise with her eyes, mercifully, closed, fatigued from “too much sunlight.”
“I’m not whispering. Maybe you’re going deaf?” I called out as loudly as I could without shouting.
I steered Marshall through the door, down the hallway, and into the garden.
“Well?” I rounded on her.
“You dismissed me for an hour or so, ma’am, and so I went with the others to see the new train come in from York.”
“The others?” I squeezed tighter.
“Just some of the Scarborough servants, ma’am. Nobody as knows Mr. Brontë.”
“Go on, go on.” A lump was rising in my throat as it had when I was a girl and one of my brothers had run to Father, saying I’d struck him. And I had. But I’d had right on my side, and if anyone else had had such a provoking brother, they would have done the same, and even if they wouldn’t have, well, that was my mother and father’s fault too, wasn’t it? For where was I to learn except from them?
Marshall looked at her arm, and I released her.
She spoke on. “It was such a to-do. Hundreds of folks had gathered, with the children and women waving flags and handkerchiefs, and street sellers racing their model engines. I never seen nothing like it. Then the train was here with a confusion of noise and smoke. A lady fainted away at the sound of the whistle. It rounded the corner so fast I must say it took my breath away. Gentlemen spilled out of all the carriages, brandishing their top hats, their faces red from the thrill of it, and the wine I daresay.”
“Never mind all that, Marshall. Mr. Brontë was there?”
So much for John Crosby’s promises: I will watch Brontë and ensure he doesn’t overdo it. It was always the same when men got together, away from the critical eyes of their womenfolk.
“I was about to turn back when I saw him emerge,” said Marshall. “He was one of the last. I couldn’t believe my two eyes, but it was him, all right. On the platform and swaying so much I feared he would fall onto the tracks. I sent the others away, said he was a cousin of mine, for I was afraid what he might say of you. When I reached him, he was talking of the railway, how they’d ill treated him once and had now done so again.”
“But did he come with you without protest?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. He recognized me all right, though he said once or twice you might have greeted him yourself. How he thought you knew he’d be on the train, I don’t know. Kept talking about souls, he did. Connections, messages that can be sent through the air. At first, I thought he was talking of the telegraph, but I reckon it was some sort of magic. Love that defies the laws of nature and even God, madam. That’s what he said. There was no reasoning with him, so I put my efforts into helping him walk straight. He’s safe now. And I fetched him some water.”