Seventeen
The marriage of Sir Gavin Keighley and Miss Rose Denholme was the wonder of the neighborhood. Over the next few days, they received a stream of callers, come to view this marvel after all the years of feuding. Some were looking for tidbits of gossip, wondering how in the world it had happened. Others were merely observing social forms. Some were glad to think the long enmity was at last over and they might look forward to a more cordial local society. Rose wished she could agree with that last group, but their families were making that impossible. They still refused to accept the change.
When Rose sent for her things, her parents refused to send them, including her precious shelves of specimen books. That bit of petty spite really hurt her. They knew how much she cherished those records. Gavin sent a pair of men to retrieve his possessions, and they reported that his mother had railed at them and threatened to have them forcibly ejected. Fortunately, the manor servants were well acquainted with the messengers and had not attacked them. Gavin’s sisters had prevented their mother from firing a shotgun.
“What if they will never live peaceably together?” Rose asked Gavin when they heard about this incident. “I am so weary of the fighting.”
He merely nodded.
“At least your mother doesn’t sound ill.”
“No, she appears to be in fine form,” he answered dryly.
He offered to dispatch the same men to wrest Rose’s things from her old home. She refused for now, not wishing to provoke her father even more.
Their work on the estate was satisfying, and their nights together were tenderly glorious. But the situation remained unhappy. And each of them found it harder because they understood the other’s pain.
One bright spot for Rose was setting up a room devoted to her plant collection efforts. She’d emptied the back corner bedchamber, sending the bed to the attics, and brought in a large table set up for pressing specimens, as well as oil lamps to supplement the light of the two windows. She would order shelves built on all the available wall space and have all the storage she could desire. It was a joy to have a room all her own, dedicated to the work she loved. She would never again have to cram items into awkward piles or squeeze out a few inches by discarding other possessions. Gavin, brought in to admire her progress, was full of admiration. When things grew particularly fraught, Rose went and sat in her room and savored it.
At breakfast on a fine late April morning, Rose found a folded note by her plate. When she had opened and read it, she told Gavin, “The Bront? children want to come to call.”
“I thought they were confined to quarters since their night on the moor.”
“Apparently the ban has been lifted.” She held up the note. “This comes from their aunt. It seems their mother’s sister has arrived to help.”
“Well, they are welcome to come, of course.”
“It will be pleasant to see them,” said Rose wistfully.
“Less complicated.”
“Yes.” He understood with no more words than that. It really was a miracle to be grateful for.
The following afternoon the Haworth party arrived in a hired gig from the village inn, and Rose and Gavin went to the door to greet them. The children tumbled out in a chattering mob, the older ones carrying bundles. They were followed by a dignified, dark-haired woman with a picnic hamper. Maria Bront? introduced her as their aunt Elizabeth Branwell. “We’ve come to have a celebration,” said Charlotte. “Because that’s what one does for a marriage, only we don’t get invited to such things since we are too young.”
In their case, there hadn’t been one, Rose thought, unless she counted the wedding day in Leeds.
“So we will make our own,” declared little Branwell, who lugged a box that seemed nearly as large as he was. “And we brought a gift too!” He thrust the box at Gavin.
“I am to open it?” Gavin asked.
There was a chorus of assent.
He did so and drew out a man’s hat.
“Yours was spoiled by the rain,” said Maria. “When you let us drink from it. So we bought you another. Well, Aunt Branwell did.”
Gavin put it on and bowed to a round of admiring applause.
“We have cakes too!” said the sole Bront? son. “And surprises.”
They went inside and settled in the front parlor. The cakes were unpacked and added to the refreshments Rose had provided. “This is lavish,” said Elizabeth Bront?.
“What is lavish?” asked little Emily.
“Bounteous,” said Charlotte.
Emily did not look enlightened. Rose marveled again at these children’s precocity.
“A special treat for a special occasion,” added Maria. “Not an everyday indulgence.”
As the children dug into the food, Rose sat down beside their aunt. “It was kind of you to bring them to visit,” she said.
“They very much wanted to come, and I could see no harm in it.”
“And you purchased the hat.” Rose wondered what the Reverend Bront? had thought about this expedition.
“I have my own income and can do as I like to some extent.”
“All the more admirable that you have come to help during their mother’s illness.”
“My sister is dying,” said Elizabeth Branwell baldly. “I could not turn away.”
Rose made a sympathetic sound.
The other woman shook her head. “Six children. Mr. Bront? is not up to the task.”
This might have put a damper on the occasion for Rose, but the youngsters were too lively for that. Their animation and imagination could help carry them through the sad times ahead, Rose thought.
When the cakes and other treats were eaten, Maria unfolded a small easel and set it on a table. Elizabeth brought an oblong package wrapped in a scarf and set it upright there. “This is our other gift,” she said. “We made it for you.”
“I helped,” declared Emily.
“So did I,” said Branwell.
“We all did,” said Charlotte. “But it was mainly Maria and Elizabeth who…”
“Don’t spoil the surprise,” her eldest sister interrupted.
Maria stood on one side of the easel. Elizabeth Bront? on the other. “Behold the Annals of Haworth Parsonage,” said the latter. Maria pulled the scarf away.
A homemade book was revealed, covers of cardboard bound together to enclose a stack of pages. The front was decorated by a watercolor of the crevice where they’d sheltered from the storm. The place was clearly identifiable. “Oh, that’s well done,” said Rose.
“Maria painted it,” said Charlotte. “She’s an artist.”
“She is teaching me to paint,” said Branwell.
The eldest Bront? blushed and looked down. “Everyone did their part,” she said. “Elizabeth wrote the words, and Charlotte did some drawings too.”
“When I’m older, I shall write a story about you,” Charlotte replied.
Smiling, Elizabeth Bront? opened the book. The title was in large lettering that could be seen across the room—THE NIGHT ON THE MOOR. The lettering was bordered by tiny drawings of moorland creatures like an illuminated manuscript. Emily and Branwell made muted fanfare noises. Elizabeth turned the page.
“‘One of us was lost,’” she read. This was accompanied by a drawing of a tiny figure on a tor, arms extended, hair streaming in the wind. Storm clouds massed on the horizon.
“That’s me,” said Emily. “I told Maria what it looked like.” She waved her arms. “Whoosh, whoosh.”
Elizabeth turned the page. “‘And one was shivering,’” she read. Beside these words, there was a sketch of a small boy being pulled from a stream by three girls.
“The rock tipped,” Branwell muttered softly, as if this was a sore point. “Wasn’t my fault.”
“‘None knew what to do,’” Elizabeth continued. She had clearly been appointed narrator. She turned another page. “‘And then rescue came!’”
Emily and Branwell provided more fanfare sounds.
Rose had to suppress a laugh. This page showed two heroic figures on horseback, standing at the top of a rise, surrounded by beams of light. Like knights of old and quite an enhancement of the actual circumstances, but very well executed. She met Gavin’s gaze. His gray eyes were dancing.
Elizabeth turned another page. “‘They found the youngest lostling. And guided all to shelter.’” A series of small drawings here showed the descent of the tor and ride across the moor.
“‘Only just in time,’” said Elizabeth dramatically, turning the next page to reveal a watercolor of a cliff beaten by a storm. “‘Thunder, lightning, lashing rain,’” she said, shuddering.
“Boom!” exclaimed Branwell.
“Whoosh, whoosh,” added Emily. Carried away by excitement, they jumped up and danced around the room.
“Crash, smash,” cried Branwell, waving his arms.
“‘The horses wouldn’t endure it,’” Elizabeth continued. “‘They fled, leaving the little band at the mercy of the elements.’”
She turned a page. This one showed another view of the crevice including seven crouching figures. Rain sheeted down before them. Lightning slashed across the sky. It was a grim scene. More so than the reality, Rose thought.
“‘The rescuers made fire!’” The next page had several small pictures of increasing coziness. “‘They drew water.’” Gavin’s hat featured here. “‘They made a refuge in the wilderness.’” The hanging greatcoat partition was skillfully rendered. “‘And guarded our rest.’” Sleeping children lay in a row by the fire.
Elizabeth gave her audience time to appreciate the details of this sequence before she turned the next page. “‘And when the morning came, they brought succor.’” She looked proud of the final word.
“Ta-ra-ra,” cried Branwell.
Strictly speaking, Gavin had brought the succor, Rose noted. This drawing showed a mounted troop arriving at the crevice, with rather more members than had been involved. It might, in fact, have been an entire regiment. The effect was striking. Artistic license was not to be disputed.
“‘And returned the errant pilgrims safely home,’” said Elizabeth, turning the final page. A watercolor of Haworth parsonage in the sunshine graced it, again very well done. Elizabeth gestured at the picture, then put a hand to her breast and bowed her head.
The group erupted in applause. “You were splendid!” declared Charlotte to her sister. “Much better than at home.”
Emily let out a long happy sigh. She shook her head as if emerging from a trance. “Splendid,” she echoed. “Tremendous. Oh, let’s do it again!”
“One time is enough,” said the children’s aunt. “But I’m sure our hosts enjoyed it.”
“Hugely,” said Gavin.
“It was wonderful,” said Rose. “Amazing.” It really was. These children built on each other’s imaginative flights, she thought, and were far more creative than any one of them could be alone.
Their guests beamed at the praise.
Another round of treats seemed in order. Rose summoned her reserves from the kitchen. Maria Bront? came to sit beside her. “That was extraordinary,” Rose told the girl. “You are all very talented.”
“You don’t think it was a frivolous endeavor?” She looked slightly anxious.
“Not at all. It was a wonderful gift.”
Maria ducked her head. “I knew you and Sir Gavin were going to wed,” she said.
Rose blinked, surprised. “You did?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“The way you looked that night. I expect you will be very happy.”
“You do?” Somehow Rose didn’t feel as if she was talking to a little girl. There was something almost oracular about Maria in this moment.
“You are like a fairy tale.”
“Those are just stories.”
“People are stories, and stories make people,” said Maria. “Stories make the whole world.” She looked up at Rose and blinked as if surprised by her own words.
Lucy, who had just entered with a tray and heard this, said, “That’s the truth. It’s what we do, eh? Tell stories. From Shakespeare on down. And you have to tell your own before somebody else does. And makes a right hash of it. ’Cause they will. That’s for certain sure.”
Rose looked from the maid to the child. Their phrases had struck a chord somewhere in her mind. Or her heart. Something significant had been planted just now, though she didn’t yet know what.
The renewed treats were consumed. Gavin offered a toast to their guests. Emily sang a song. Charlotte recited a poem, not one of her father’s. Branwell attempted a handstand and nearly knocked over a table. And with that, their aunt declared it was time for the visitors to go. She stood, quelling a flurry of protests with one stern look. The children subsided and began putting on their coats.
It emerged that the book they’d created was to go with them, not remain as a gift. It was to be part of an ongoing chronicle at the parsonage. “But you can come and see it whenever you like,” Charlotte assured Rose and Gavin. They thanked her solemnly.
Their aunt herded the group to the gig in a hubbub of farewells. Branwell hung over the side of the vehicle, waving, as it started off. “Wasn’t that a grand celebration?” he asked.
“It was,” called Gavin.
“Thank you,” said Rose. They watched, waving back, until the gig was out of sight.
The house seemed quiet and empty when they had departed. “Those children will do great things,” said Gavin as they returned to the parlor. “That was quite a feat.”
Rose nodded. “And they are so young. Think what they’ll be like when older.”
“If they don’t lose that spark. The world will try to take it away from them.”
Rose thought of the bereavement ahead of them and their father’s rigid rules. “Perhaps they will find refuge in stories,” she murmured.
“What?”
“Maria said something. Lucy too.”
Gavin raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t have put those two in the same category.”
“About stories. They set me thinking.”
He waited, attentive.
“The tales we tell,” Rose continued slowly. “About ourselves and each other.”
“Umm?”
“They shape.” Rose frowned, frustrated. She was not quite catching this elusive concept. She bit her lip. “We were the story of Gavin and Rose. Hereditary enemies.”
“Until we retold it,” Gavin said.
“Yes!”
“Amongst ourselves, at least.” His expression was wry.
Rose nodded. “We have to do more.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not… You remember my grandmother’s idea about imagining what could be worse?” She was working things out as she spoke.
“Of course,” he responded “A very useful practice. Even if one’s blood runs cold at the possibilities that crop up.”
“But…what if…instead of thinking what could be worse, one…imagined a story that could be better.”
“Imagined?”
“Told? Insisted upon?”
“I don’t quite understand you, Rose.”
“I don’t either. But I might have an idea.”
“You always have good ones.”
She loved him so. “We will have to puzzle it out together.”
“Those are the best kind of ideas.”
One fantastically busy week later, Gavin and Rose stood ready to greet their friends and neighbors to a party at Yerndon to celebrate their marriage. They had invited everyone they knew and some people they were barely acquainted with. They had sent for special provisions from Leeds, as well as a rainbow of flowers, and recruited helpers from around the neighborhood. There was a luscious buffet set out in the dining room. A trio of musicians, also from Leeds, had set up in a corner of the front parlor and were tuning their instruments. Fortunately, May had begun warm and dry. If people overflowed the house, they would be comfortable outdoors. Chairs had been scattered about the garden for this eventuality.
Their families were attending. Gavin’s mother was being fetched, rather against her will. The twins had helped push her on when Gavin recruited them with the bait of the Brighton trip. Rose’s parents had yielded to talk of appearances and what people would think if they stayed away. Gavin trusted that the public occasion would at least give them a bit of time to try out Rose’s clever idea.
“That is the Milsomes’ carriage,” said Rose at his side. “I told you they would be among the first to arrive.”
Gavin squeezed her hand, which was trembling slightly in his. “Here we go then.”
She turned to look up at him. “Oh, Gavin, do you think…”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained. It is a good plan.”
She gave him an uncertain smile. He hoped he was right.
Forty minutes later, Gavin and Rose sat in the middle of a row of chairs set out in the back parlor, which had been cleared of other furnishings for this occasion. Gavin’s mother was at his other side, his sisters just beyond. Past Rose sat her parents. They were arrayed as if they were two families celebrating their union through marriage. Guests could circulate through to congratulate them and then move on to refreshments and conversation. If only their families didn’t look stiff and reluctant, Gavin thought. Not to say sullen. Only his sisters were smiling.
As time passed and the press of good wishes thinned out, the older generation began to look restive. They were plotting escape, or worse. It was time to begin. Gavin caught Rose’s eye. They exchanged a nod and turned toward their respective parents.
“You are looking very fine tonight, Mama,” said Gavin.
His mother’s frown eased a bit. She sat straighter.
“Is that a new gown?”
“Isn’t it lush?” said Jillian.
“It certainly becomes you, Mama,” said Gavin.
“Mr. Milsome’s brother, who is visiting, thought she was our older sister,” said Jillian with a giggle.
“Him!” Their mother tossed her head.
“He was much struck,” said Janet. “He said she is a fine-looking woman.”
“Not surprising,” said Gavin. “She is.”
Their mother made a shooing gesture, but she looked pleased.
“He said he was very sorry he had missed the dance,” added Jillian.
“He still wants you to walk in the garden,” said Janet.
“Pish,” said their mother. But her eyes gleamed.
“You know, Mama,” said Gavin in a musing tone that he strove to make casual. “It just occurs to me. Didn’t Aunt Mary invite you to go to Brighton with Jillian and Janet?”
The twins nodded. Gavin had not dared prime them lest the plan get out, but he’d hoped they would support him.
“Go?” his mother replied. “How could I go?”
“By carriage with my sisters,” he answered. “Quite easily.”
“And leave you all al…” She broke off, since this point was obviously specious. He was not alone. “I have far too much to do,” she said instead.
“You are always busy,” Gavin acknowledged. “You deserve a rest, and a holiday. I think I might manage to care for the estate.”
“The one you have abandoned?” his mother asked sourly.
Gavin ignored this gibe. “You know,” he repeated. “I have wondered. Did you never think to remarry?”
“What?” Her exclamation brought heads around.
“Our father has been gone for years now. And you are in your prime. As the gentleman said, a fine-looking woman.”
“I have devoted my life to my children,” she answered. “However ungrateful some of them may have been.”
“And now the youngest of us are to be launched into the world,” Gavin said. “Jillian and Janet will go off to their own homes soon, I daresay.”
“You would certainly know about that,” replied his mother. She looked less grim, however.
“I daresay you would enjoy the company in Brighton,” said Gavin. “With people of taste and discernment all around you.”
“Unlike here,” she replied.
“Very true,” said Gavin. There was a spark of interest in her eye, he was certain.
“You would need more new dresses,” said Janet. “More fashionable ones.”
This idea did not repel their mother, Gavin thought.
“Brighton is full of fine modistes,” said Jillian. “Some move from London for the summer.”
“Aunt Mary would know all about that,” said Janet. “She could advise us all.” The twins exchanged a conspiratorial glance. They were hoping for a new wardrobe themselves out of this idea, Gavin thought. And so they had become allies.
“Mary has no eye for color,” grumbled his mother.
Gavin suppressed a spark of triumph. He had gotten her arguing on his ground. “You could set her straight,” he said. “I daresay the Keighley ladies would create a sensation at the seaside.”
“We could stroll along the shore together,” said Jillian.
“I expect you would often be mistaken for the twins’ older sister,” Gavin told his mother. “Fine-looking indeed.”
“Do you imagine I don’t see what you are doing?” his mother asked in response.
“Suggesting that you enjoy yourself at the seaside? With the cream of London society? And Aunt Mary to present you to her wide acquaintance.”
“And so many charming gentlemen,” said Janet. Her expression suggested that she was imagining herself the object of their attentions.
“A change of scene,” said Gavin. He decided to dare. “A fresh start?”
His mother looked out the window, past the guests in the garden and over the moor. “I will…consider it,” she said in an uncharacteristic meditative tone.
For her, this was agreement. Gavin sat back, satisfied.
On his other side, Rose had opened a conversation with her parents. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if Daniel were here,” she said.
“Your brother does not care to have anything to do with us,” replied her father with a frown.
“Oh no. He would have come. But he was engaged with a party of friends for a walking tour of Offa’s Dike. Very historical.”
“You invited Daniel?” Her father looked thunderous.
“I don’t know why I let you discourage me from writing him,” Rose said in a musing voice. “Of course I had to let him know about my marriage.”
“You dared?” Her father’s exclamation brought heads around.
“He thought it was a fine solution to the Yerndon problem,” Rose went on. “And rather a good joke, actually.”
“Joke!”
“He said he’d always liked Gavin as a boy. And he thought I had too. He’ll come and visit another time.”
“He can’t come here instead of staying with us,” exclaimed her mother. “What would people say?”
“He can do what he likes,” snarled Rose’s father. “He always does.”
“I wonder where he got that from?” asked her mother with a sharp look.
“You should go and see him,” said Rose.
“He does not care to receive us,” replied her father with the air of one closing a case once and for all.
“Because you were always fighting about Yerndon,” said Rose. Her brother had thought the feud ridiculous. It had been the chief bone of contention between the two Denholme men. “Now that the matter is resolved and need not be mentioned again, I daresay he would be glad to see you.”
“Do you think so?” asked her mother longingly.
“I do. You could hear about what he’s up to in Oxford.”
“Scholarship,” muttered her father as if it was some illicit pursuit.
“It might be quite interesting. He was telling me about Offa’s Dike in his letter.”
Her father looked at her as if she’d run mad.
Rose’s mother wrung her hands. “Without Yerndon to argue over, couldn’t we be reconciled with Daniel? It is so long since we’ve seen him.”
“I won’t…” began Rose’s father.
“Won’t what? Rose is right.”
Rose had never seen her mother look so fierce. It was rather lovely. And so she didn’t twit her parents over the phrase, “Rose is right.” She would just enjoy the novelty of it, she decided. And believe that it might be used again sometime. Even frequently.
“I shall invite Daniel home,” said her mother with a finality that allowed no argument.
“You will do no such—”
“I shall! And you will welcome your son as a father ought.”
Rose turned to Gavin. He smiled and offered a small nod. Rose took it for success. They’d agreed they couldn’t show any outward sign of triumph. That might undo any progress they’d made. Nor did they expect that one brief talk would change everything. It was just a seed. They would have more work to do. It was a good beginning, however, to a new story.
After their guests had all departed, Rose and Gavin walked out onto the moor together, hand in hand. The sun was at the horizon, throwing golden light and long shadows across the beloved landscape. The birds chirped evening calls as they settled for the night. Fresh scents perfumed the air. The heather would be blooming in another month, a purple carpet over the earth, driving the bees mad with joy. They were both filled with deep contentment here in their heart home as they reviewed their family conversations.
“Charming gentlemen,” said Rose with a smile.
“That point did seem to strike Mama,” replied Gavin.
“I would like her to be happy.”
“As would I. It has been so long since she seemed so. And I would like to see Daniel again as well.”
“I think you two could be friends.”
“So do I. I always admired him.”
Rose looked up at her husband. “Did you? Even though Daniel was a scholar and not an adventurer on the moor.”
“Because of it. He reads ancient Greek as if it was a London newspaper.”
“Does he?”
“He helped me with some knotty passages during a school holiday.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Gavin smiled. “You don’t know everything, even though your idea was a stroke of genius. You are brilliant, Lady Keighley.”
“You are discerning, Sir Gavin.”
They laughed together.
He raised her hand and kissed it. “You don’t know how much I love you.”
“I don’t, do I?”
He looked surprised. “How not?”
“Well, you haven’t actually said so before.”
“Of course I have.”
“When?” Rose asked him roguishly.
“Well, after we wed. Or when I held you in my arms.”
She shook her head.
“I’m sure I must have,” Gavin insisted.
“Not as such,” Rose told him.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“Well, I have been thinking it for weeks.”
“Oh, thinking.” She dimpled. “How many weeks?”
“Many more than I understood until lately.”
“What happened lately?” she asked.
“The Rose I had nearly forgotten, and the youth who admired her, came out of hiding.”
She blinked back a sudden tear.
Gavin sank to one knee. “I love you with all my heart, Rose. Will you be my wife?”
“I am your wife,” she pointed out.
“With all your heart?”
She waited a moment so as not to seem flip. “With every part of me. And all my hopes and dreams.”
“And so?”
“I love you very, very much, Gavin.”
He stood and pulled her into his arms.