Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
OPALINE
England, 1922
M y trip began as planned, with a visit to the Bront? Society. Merely to stand where the Bront? sisters had stood, to look out at the moors that inspired Emily’s writing, was such a touching experience. The house itself stood like a fortress, its grey brick tempered by the large sash windows. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to live there, daughters of a fervently religious man, pressed up against the wilds of such an unyielding landscape. Young women, spinsters like myself, ignored by the world of men and literature, pouring their heart and passion into their writing and taking on the male pseudonyms of Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. I stood there in Mr Fitzpatrick’s trousers and a long overcoat, similarly at odds with the constraints of our gender. It was also a disguise, in case Lyndon had his spies out.
After Patrick Bront?’s death, the entire contents of the house were either auctioned off or gifted to those who worked at Haworth. The Society was fortunate enough to have acquired much of these effects and their archives were quite impressive. I came across poems by Emily, annotated by elder sister Charlotte, immediately giving me the impression of a sibling power struggle, albeit a loving one. It was common knowledge that Charlotte was critical of her younger sister’s masterpiece. In the preface to the 1850 edition of Wuthering Heights , where Emily’s authorship was finally recognised, Charlotte wrote:
Whether it is right or advisable to create beings like Heathcliff, I do not know: I scarcely think it is. Wuthering Heights was hewn in a wild workshop, with simple tools, out of homely materials.
Charlotte was the only one of the sisters to marry. She married Arthur Bell Nicholls, a curate who worked with her father and was not particularly liked in the village. I read that he inherited all of her belongings after her death, just nine months after their marriage. Perhaps marriage didn’t suit her after all. He later moved back to his native Ireland and married his cousin. The Honresfield library acquired many of the manuscripts and effects in his possession, so that gave me a spark of hope that I might find some clue there on my visit the following day.
I decided to dine at the inn, which was only a short walk from my lodgings. I ordered a hearty shepherd’s pie and sat by the window, drinking a small glass of gin as an aperitif. I spoke briefly to the landlord, who seemed well versed on all things Bront?. They were starting to make quite a bit of money out of visitors to the parsonage and saw it as their civic duty to fill tourists in on whatever the museum’s curator left out. I sat there, reading Elizabeth Gaskell’s biography of Charlotte Bront?. Unfortunately all that was known about Emily could scarcely fill a page. There was, however, mention of a Martha Brown – the maid who worked at the parsonage. As the landlord’s son cleared my dish and wiped down the table, I ordered another drink and asked if he knew anything about her family, being from the area.
‘Oh aye, the sexton’s daughter. She never married,’ he said, in a way that sounded so desperately forlorn.
I gulped a mouthful of gin. Why was marriage always seen as the key to happiness?
‘So there was no family to look after her when she got sick.’ He continued in his relentless character assassination of the unmarried woman. ‘I think she died alone in a small cottage.’
I took another gulp of gin. My future suddenly looked quite grim.
‘It says here in my book that she inherited quite a bit of the Bront? family memorabilia. I wonder if she had any other relatives she might have passed it on to?’
‘My uncle John went to school with one of her nephews, as it happens.’
I clapped my hands. It felt like I was on a trail.
‘Can I speak with him, your uncle?’
‘He died this past year.’
‘Oh, I am very sorry to hear that,’ I said, keeping my hands clasped as though in prayer for his soul.
‘I do remember him saying that the two brothers had a bookshop down in London. One of them still lives there. Maybe you could enquire there?’
‘Oh, wonderful, do you have the name?’
He looked heavenward for inspiration.
‘Brown’s bookshop?’
‘Quite,’ I said, handing him some coins for my meal before walking back to my accommodation.
* * *
My appointment was at 9 a.m. to study the collection at Honresfield. Mr Law was away on business, so his assistant, a very diligent young woman by the name of Miss Pritchett, welcomed me. While the estate was vast and his wealth evident, the house retained a practical atmosphere. One wing was entirely devoted to their remarkable collection of British literature, with manuscripts by Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott and Jane Austen.
‘Your letter stated that you have an interest in the Bront? collection?’ Miss Pritchett said, opening the large wooden doors to a smaller anteroom. ‘I believe you’ll find everything you need here,’ she said, handing me a catalogue of the library and a pair of soft white gloves. ‘Mr Law asks that every visitor wear these. We must preserve the integrity of the paper.’
‘Of course,’ I agreed, my eyes darting round the walls of shelves containing all sorts of riches, waiting to be discovered. First editions of Pride and Prejudice and Northanger Abbey , no doubt with a fascinating provenance, yet I had to pull my focus to the task at hand. With great care, I eased a first edition of Wuthering Heights from the shelf. I brought it to the table, which had a kind of easel to rest the book on. In its original cloth cover, it was in pristine condition. On the first page, I was intrigued to discover that it was inscribed by the Rev. Patrick Bront? to none other than Martha Brown, the family housekeeper and arguably a much-valued member of the household. My senses were fizzing with connections – what else might she have been bequeathed and where might it have ended up, if not sold at auction?
There were many boxes containing entertaining yet inconsequential letters between the sisters and Ellen Nussey, along with more interesting correspondence between Charlotte and her erstwhile biographer Elizabeth Gaskell. Then things became more interesting. I found a letter from Charlotte to her own publishers, complaining about Thomas Cautley Newby, the man who published Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey . He was a bit of a scoundrel by all accounts, demanding the sisters pay ￡50 upfront and capitalising on the confusion surrounding the Bell name. The theory at the time was that all three books were authored by one man. Of course, it could not have been further from the truth, as Charlotte and Anne travelled to London to confirm: We are three sisters . Yet Emily remained at home and seemed to prefer the anonymity of a nom de plume. Unlike her sisters, she did not seek recognition from the London literary set, nor did she seem perturbed by Cautley’s greedy character. Perhaps she understood that he was true to his nature, as she was to hers.
I noticed a letter without any address and scanned it rather quickly, as my stomach rumbled, yearning for food. The words caused time itself to stop.
London,
15 February 1848
Dear Sir,
I am much obliged by your kind note and shall have great pleasure in making arrangements for your next novel. I would not hurry its completion, for I think you are quite right not to let it go before the world until well satisfied with it, for much depends on your new work: if it be an improvement on your first you will have established yourself as a first-rate novelist, but if it falls short the Critics will be too apt to say that you have expended your talent in your first novel. I shall, therefore, have pleasure in accepting it upon the understanding that its completion be at your own time.
Believe me,
My dear Sir
Yrs sincerely
T C Newby
I sat there, blinking at the words in front of me. Your next novel. Here it was, irrefutable proof that Emily, or Ellis Bell, had begun working on a second manuscript. There was no record of the ‘kind note’ she had sent, but there was evidently some hesitation on her part in rushing its publication. Perhaps she was already unwell and felt herself unequal to the task? Or was it more likely that, being a perfectionist, she wished to take more time to complete it? My head buzzed with excitement.
I looked at the entry in the catalogue for further explanation.
Letter from T.C. Newby found in Emily’s writing desk with an accompanying envelope addressed simply to Acton Bell.
But I knew it couldn’t have been meant for Anne, for her second novel had already been submitted for publication. No, this was a correspondence with Emily regarding her follow-up to Wuthering Heights . I knew it! I sat back in my chair and looked out the long sash windows to the garden. If Charlotte had destroyed Emily’s papers following her death, I would never find the manuscript. My hopes rose and fell with each contradictory argument.
Then I saw something I never would have predicted in a million years. Walking up the drive to the house was a man I was sure I would not see again. Armand Hassan.
* * *
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I said, standing in the entrance hall and blocking Miss Pritchett’s way.
‘Opaline.’
He simply said my name and it all came flooding back. Paris, his apartment, the touch of his lips on my skin, the scent of his hair wax. It was intoxicating. He looked deeply into my eyes until I broke my gaze. I thought I had put my feelings for him far behind me, but seeing him again, I realised that I had merely hidden them. All of the longing and the hurt were still there, as strong as ever. He took my hand and kissed my wrist, then, still holding it, moved closer and kissed me on each cheek.
Miss Pritchett began to clear her throat behind me.
‘Mr Hassan, is it?’ she asked. ‘I have the books you wished to view set up in the drawing room.’
I stood back and let them discuss their business. I couldn’t help but watch him; he was dressed impeccably, as always, in cream linen trousers and a navy sports jacket. His skin was rich and darker now, thanks to his travels, no doubt. His hair shone like onyx and it was all I could do not to reach out and touch it.
‘I’m here to view some illustrations for a client. However, I am attending an auction in Sotheby’s tomorrow afternoon if that is of interest to you.’
‘Sotheby’s!’ I repeated, failing to keep the excitement from my voice. I couldn’t possibly go. It was too risky to go to London. My smile crumpled.
‘No, I must return to Ireland.’
He looked at me as though he was searching for memories in my eyes. I looked away.
‘You still wear my necklace, I see.’
My hand instinctively went to touch the golden hamsa pendant he had given me on my departure from Paris. A brief smile came to my lips unbidden.
Of course, I should have refused him. But I told myself that I needed news of Paris and Sylvia. That he was one of the few friends I had left, that without his help I would probably be back in London now and trapped in an arranged marriage.
‘Well, maybe it wouldn’t hurt,’ I said.
How wrong I was.
* * *
He held open the door of a gleaming black car. If I didn’t know better, I would say that he had come into some money, but it was too vulgar to ask.
‘My client,’ he said, replying to my unspoken question. ‘She is quite generous.’
She . I looked out of the window, concealing the prickle of jealousy that pierced me. It had been several months since our time together in Paris; how could I still feel this way?
‘I am so very glad to see you, Opaline. Many times I have wondered about you.’
And yet he had never sent a letter.
‘Are you still in Dublin?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, quite terse. Where else would I be? Did he expect me to have travelled the world, finding a lover in every port, like him? I sulked for much of the journey and wondered why I had bothered to go at all.
We pulled up on a busy and grimy street full of eighteenth-century houses and shops, with trams trundling past at one end and the buses of High Holborn at the other.
‘I thought we were going to Sotheby’s,’ I said, looking around and pulling my cap down to hide my face. I had decided to dress head to toe in men’s clothing, with my giant overcoat concealing my form.
‘Just a quick stop, I think you’ll enjoy it.’
‘Are you always so enigmatic?’ I asked, as if I wasn’t charmed by it. He knew how to reel people in. Women, more specifically.
We stood in front of a tiny bookshop, with the usual dusty barrows of unsellable stock outside. Next door to a junkshop, it had an old-style window divided into tiny square panes. There I spotted a sign:
THESE ARE THE ONLY DIRTY BOOKS WE HAVE.
PLEASE DO NOT WASTE TIME ASKING FOR OTHERS.
‘What in heaven’s—’
I looked up and saw the name printed above the door: The Progressive Bookshop, 68 Red Lion Street.
‘Shall we?’ Armand held the door open for me.
I wasn’t sure what kind of den of iniquity we were entering, but I had a wonderful sense that we were going to find something out of the ordinary.
A nervous-looking fellow of similar vintage to ourselves was kneeling on the floor with his head halfway inside a cardboard box, quietly muttering expletives as he searched for something within.
‘I understand you are distributing works that breach the British obscenity law,’ Armand said in what was quite a passable London accent.
The man jumped up and propelled his wiry frame towards us with such haste that I took a step backwards (which was quite a feat in itself, as the shop left little room to manoeuvre).
‘Armand Hassan, you bastard!’ he cried, which caused Armand to smile broadly and then both men hugged like long-lost brothers reunited.
‘I knew it was you,’ he said with a slight German accent, laughing.
‘Herr Lahr, may I present my colleague, Mademoiselle Opaline—’
‘Gray,’ I interrupted. ‘Miss Gray,’ and I proffered my hand.
‘ Freut mich ,’ he said, which I interpreted as a good thing.
He offered to make us some coffee, but Armand declined, saying that we didn’t have much time before the auction.
‘I have your copy here. Price as agreed – I must cover myself for any legal repercussions, you understand.’
‘Of course,’ said Armand. ‘My client is very eager to have it.’
My curiosity was almost a fourth presence in the room! When he handed over the small rectangle wrapped in brown paper and Armand began to count out the notes, I asked if I might open it.
‘Why not?’ Armand replied.
I unwrapped it slowly, tantalisingly, and saw the title, Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
‘D.H. Lawrence,’ Armand confirmed.
‘The man is a literary genius and yet we must sell his books illegally like this,’ Herr Lahr opined.
I wanted a copy very badly. I wanted twenty. Yet I was aware of how selling such controversial literature might bring unwelcome attention to my little shop. But I simply had to read it and so I negotiated a price with him for a copy of my own before we drove to Sotheby’s carrying our prohibited literature on the back seat.
* * *
Through Sotheby’s dark passages an excited throng tumbled into the large auction gallery, sweeping us both along with them. Armand took my hand and led me to a little alcove at the side of the room, where we stood pressed up against each other and the wall. For one heady moment, I inhaled his scent and again was transported back to that night and the heat of his body. I coughed several times and tried to count the number of people in the room to distract myself.
‘Gosh, what a scene! I wonder what is up for auction.’
‘You did not see the catalogue? It is the original manuscript of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland .’
‘Good grief!’
Armand borrowed a leaflet from a man who was seated beside us and handed it to me.
‘A Christmas Gift to a Dear Child in Memory of a Summer Day.’ I had simply adored his book as a child and was surprised to learn that Charles Dodgson (Lewis Carroll), a mathematician at Oxford, had lovingly penned and illustrated the little book in 1864 as a gift to the Liddell family. The story went that on a boat trip down the Thames, he first told his surreal story to the daughters of the dean, Henry Liddell. Eventually, he was persuaded to publish the work and the rest was history.
‘This is fascinating!’ I said, having completely forgotten my ardent thoughts of a moment earlier.
‘There are rumours that the bidding could exceed ten thousand pounds.’
Barely noticed in the crowd was a small, elderly woman in a black dress. Armand pointed her out as Alice Liddell Hargreaves.
I turned to him and said, ‘You don’t mean … it couldn’t be!’
He nodded, gratified by being the one in the know.
‘She is the original “Alice”. She held on to the manuscript all this time, but since the death of her husband, she has been drowning in tax bills.’
‘Not Reginald Hargreaves, the cricketer?’ They were a high-profile couple in London society. It must have pained her greatly to put the manuscript up for auction. She sat at the very front, her head erect and her pride intact.
The bidding began hesitantly, as it often does, while the buyers get the measure of each other. There’s a certain amount of poker playing in the auction room and no one wished to show their hand too soon.
‘Eight thousand, five hundred to the man in the alcove,’ announced the auctioneer, as I felt Armand’s hand go up.
‘You never said you were bidding,’ I whispered.
‘On behalf of a client,’ he said, always with that mysterious air. Another wealthy client; he seemed to collect them like snowdrops in springtime.
As the bidding rose higher and higher, attention focused on a short, well-dressed man with an unmistakable air of authority.
‘Fifteen thousand pounds,’ he announced, in a strong American accent, as though to bring this charade to a close.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked.
‘ Merde ! That, my dear Opaline, is the Terror of the Auction Room.’
The gavel came down with a decisive bang and the tense silence shattered into a cacophony of voices. Some in wonderment, most aghast that such a quintessential English work was now lost to an American. The man wiped his glasses, as some bidders went to congratulate him.
‘He has outbid me at every auction this year,’ Armand said, in a thorny tone that suggested begrudging admiration for the man. As we passed by him on our way out of the room, the two men nodded to each other.
‘Mr Hassan, tell the baroness she will have to do better next time.’
Armand bristled at his gloating and attempted to bustle me out of the room.
‘And who is your companion? Are you not going to introduce us?’
‘Abe Rosenbach, may I present Mademoiselle—’
‘Gray,’ I interrupted him again. ‘I am a book dealer from Ireland,’ I said, loving how that sounded.
‘Is that so? Here, let me give you my card,’ he said, procuring one from his pocket. ‘You never know when we might do business together.’ He had a smile heavily laden with innuendo that I tried to ignore.
‘Congratulations on your acquisition, Mr Rosenbach.’
‘Thank you, Miss Gray, but this is not simply an acquisition. I have wanted this manuscript for a very long time. You see, it was the book my dear departed mother read to me when I lay ill in bed with chickenpox. I suppose, with my fever, I had a fancy that she was telling me a story about her childhood. I thought she was Alice. She died shortly afterwards and I’ve read this book every night since.’
I was almost moved to tears by his story. Even Armand seemed affected.
‘Hah! Don’t be ridiculous,’ Rosenbach bellowed. ‘Never trust a book dealer who lets sentimentality get in the way. I had to own it because there is only one of it in the world – that’s all there is to it. If I own it, then no one else can. I have known men to hazard their fortunes, go long journeys halfway about the world, forget friendships, even lie, cheat, and steal, all for the gain of a book.’
‘Mr Rosenbach, you had me completely fooled!’ I said, annoyed at having been lured in by his tale.
‘Apologies my dear, I couldn’t resist. After love, book collecting is the most exhilarating sport of all.’
‘What a cad,’ I whispered to Armand as we left the auction room, but he did not answer. They were made of the same stuff, Rosenbach and he. They felt no guilt, no remorse, and would do whatever it took to get what they wanted. It frightened and fascinated me in equal measure, like standing too close to a flame and hoping that I would not be consumed by its heat.