The Brontë Plot

by Katherine Reay

Home doesn’t always come easily.”

“I’ve never heard anyone talk about books like you do. It’s like they’re your friends.”

I mean that reading forms your opinions, your worldview, especially childhood reading, and anything that does that has an impact. So call them friends, call some stories enemies if you want, but don’t deny their influence.” She popped up straight. “You learn drama from the Brontës; sense from Austen; social justice from Dickens; beauty from Wordsworth, Keats, and Byron; patience and perseverance from Gaskell; and don’t even get me started on exercising your imagination with Carroll, Doyle, Wells, Wilde, Stoker—”

“He gave me furniture, Sid. It was incredible. He just showed up at my apartment Saturday morning with his favorite armchair and two bookshelves.” Sid’s eyes widened. “Most guys don’t think beyond flowers. You might want to keep that one.”

“Impossible. This shooting star has substance; it’s not going to fall.”

“Why don’t we take a break? Memories can be exhausting.”

You can reinvent yourself anywhere.

“Nothing’s that bleak, my dear. You’re simply too young to see it.”

Lucy walked to the foot of the bench. “There’s a quote here from Lady Windermere’s Fan. It says ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’ ” “I’d say that’s about right.” “Do you think you can sink so low that you can’t see them anymore?” “Goodness . . .” Helen patted the bench next to her. “Sit down here. You’re going to make me worry about you. Where’s all this coming from?” “I’m thinking the answer is yes. And that makes me worry about me too.”

‘We were full of experiments and reforms. We were going to do without table napkins; we were going to paint; to write; to have coffee after dinner instead of tea at nine o’clock. Everything was going to be new; everything was going to be different. Everything was on trial.’ Isn’t that marvelous?”

“Aloneness can creep up on you. Some is good and creative; I see that in Sid. He needs that time. But too much isn’t a good thing. To have someone know you, really know you, that’s a nice thing, I think.” Lucy kept her gaze trained on the clouds and light.

“Were you alone? Is that why you question if Charles knew you loved him, because you kept something back and, therefore, you felt alone and by default he must have too?” Helen held Lucy in a long, steady look. “That’s exactly how it was.” Lucy slid the book inside her bag. “I can understand that.” “You seem a little young.” “I doubt age has much to do with it. I mean, can’t one feel that way around parents or siblings or even out to dinner with good friends?”

We only read A Christmas Carol together, but he always said”—Lucy dropped her voice low—“ ‘Dickens loved people best. He always gave the little man a way out.’ When I read a bunch of Dickens in college, I finally got what he meant.” She squeezed Helen’s arm for emphasis. “Did you know Dickens never killed his bad guys? Well, he killed off one. The others were cowards, bullies, minor villains, and general degenerates, but they were worth something and they lived. If they didn’t change on the page and find redemption, they lived with that promise still out there.”

“My dad even spent some time in jail. I don’t know what for, but I like to think it’s because fact and fiction got mixed up with him and he got beyond his ability to straighten things out. My mom says that’s an excuse. And it is, but . . .” “But he’s your father and that’s what we do.”

And I criticize my dad for living in stories and now I compare my life and family tree to Wuthering Heights. But that’s what’s upsetting. Where do they end and I begin? My family, not the stories.” “You are your own person and I wouldn’t worry about the stories. We all compare our lives to them. That’s why we love them; they help us understand ourselves.”

“Before I die”—Helen held up her hand to Lucy’s startled expression—“I want someone to know me, the real me. That’s what this is all truly about. I want to be brave and meet that girl I knew long ago, before life and fear stifled her. May I start with you?”

She loved that dress—one couldn’t be sad while wearing such a happy dress.

They simply enjoyed the cool night and the soft breeze that carried the scents of fish and chips, spices and ale, mixing with the warmed stuffy air blowing from the street grates leading to the Underground.

We’re relational creatures and I don’t think those connections are made exclusively with people.”

“What was Ollie like? You made him sound very exciting, then at the Abbey today, almost scary, like he was some Heathcliff who tormented you.” “Not that at all. He was more Rochester than anyone.” Lucy groaned. “That’s hardly better.” “I disagree.” Helen laughed. “Edward Rochester had some fine qualities in the end. He simply had lessons to learn, and I expect your grandfather grew up nicely too.

How much changed in a life, in a person, when one wasn’t paying attention?

Helen stared straight into Lucy’s eyes. No blinking. “Getting old is not for the faint of heart, Lucy. It’s a trial unlike any I’ve known, to be constantly betrayed by my body. That’s what’s happening to me. I’m not strong enough for more treatment. So, yes, my time is ending and no one is fully aware of that yet.” “Why haven’t you told your son?” “I needed to see this through, and the moment Charlie knows, I’ll be put on lockdown and may never make another decision for myself again.”

I should’ve told him, ‘run mad as often as you choose; but do not faint,’ and left it at that.” “Who? Charlie?” A smile finally reached Lucy’s eyes as she returned to Helen’s story. “I remember that line. Jane Austen is a font of good advice.”

“Did you get to the British Library?” “I beelined only through the Ritblat Gallery to glimpse the Jane Eyre and it was lovely.” “But you also caught the Magna Carta.” Helen chortled at Lucy’s head shake. “The Gutenberg Bible? Shakespeare’s first folio? Handel’s original Messiah, in his own hand?” “When you ask that way, you make it sound like those are more important,” Lucy droned. “Goodness, never.” Helen laughed.

I also took the Tube to the Baker Street Station and visited Sherlock Holmes. The museum is everything you’d want it to be—kitschy, authentic, touristy, and marvelous. It made me want to reread all those stories again . . .

“The Wildfell Hall Tea was always my favorite. It had a little book painted in the corner with a teacup resting on it, but it’s probably blown all the way to Thornfield Tasty Treats by now.”

“A group I brought up here last year raved about that shop. You should go.” “Bainbridge Books? Hey . . . I’ve purchased from them. They have a wonderful antique book collection.”

“Thank you. The house originally belonged to the Northrup family and was built in 1679, but it was taken over and added to in the mid-1800s by Thomas Seaton, a textile manufacturer. His family sold it to my great-grandparents in 1913 and it’s been an inn ever since World War I, following its days as an infirmary.” “What an amazing story, but then again, I bet most old houses have interesting stories to tell.” Helen sounded groggy. Bette nodded. “When you’re standing for over three hundred years, a lot is bound to happen to you. I can give you a tour tomorrow if you’d like.”

“I imagined the moors were like this. Wild and wintry out of the sun. In all the books, there’s always a fire burning.” Helen snuggled deeper into her seat.

This was not a day for skirts, ballet flats, or heeled boots. This was a day for soft wool, warm socks, loafers, and literature.

Lucy stopped and pulled out her phone. “It said, ‘I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen, not only because I see it, but because by it, I see everything else.’ It struck me because we all see the world through a lens, a unique lens. For C. S. Lewis, it was Christianity. You have yours; I have mine. They’re different, and for you to understand me at all, you first have to accept that.”

“You can be so frustrating,” James called after her. “So can you. But I’m trying to figure this out, James. Do you think I like what I’ve become? I hurt you. I hurt Helen. And Sid? Do you not think that keeps me awake at night now? None of this is easy, but I’ve got to sort it out, and dealing with your expectations and your burdens is too much. You walked away from me, James, and we need to keep it that way. Because I can’t take on your issues as well as my own.” She walked back to him. “You’ve got your own mess. Find out who you are and what you want. Not what they want for you, but what you want, because life is short and, as your grandmother says, regrets are exhausting. And I can tell you, they’re also very, very heavy.”

Lucy stayed. She let her eyes roam the room with its small desk, stiff, straight chair, and bed, and she thought of all the stories penned here. Jane Eyre, a journey of self-realization, passion, and promise . . . Shirley, emotionally distant with more of an eye to social change rather than to the heart . . . Villette, with its pervading sense of isolation and search for one’s place. How could the Brontës, all the sisters, write such characters, write of such change and of such loss, unless they’d felt it, endured it, and suffered through it? With Courage to Endure.

Lucy then shared about the Parsonage and James gave her the moment, not interrupting once. She retraced her steps and described every detail, inviting Helen into the rooms and into the emotions. “I’ve loved the books, and the characters have always felt so real to me, but now the authors feel more that way too. I touched the table where they ate, my shoes clicked on their same floorboards, Charlotte’s desk looks just like the one I sit at day in and day out in Sid’s shop and polish every Thursday.” She leaned closer to Helen. “That quote from Westminster Abbey fits in a way I hadn’t realized either. ‘With Courage to Endure.’ That’s what they gave to their characters, their full experience. And those young women had so much courage. They lived in isolation; they feared living without love; they had responsibility and caretaking for their sick and violent brother; they had to find work . . . Nothing was easy. They all had something to say about their lives, and they said it with strength, through those stories.

It was easier to talk here in the dim room and the warm firelight. Helen had a point—gothic novels had good fires for a reason.

“I understand. I also understand that hope is a hard thing to share.”

“All those ‘would’ves’ and ‘should’ves.’ Those are tough words. I have a few of them to face myself. Don’t let them build up, my dear. That’s one thing I’m learning now, and it’d be nice if I can give you a fifty-five-year head start.” “Helen . . .” “You have such a road ahead of you.” Helen reached out her arms. “ ‘Come further up, come further in,’ okay?” “Our new battle cry?” Lucy stood and hugged Helen’s fragile frame. “That’s a wonderful thought and very appropriate. For both of us.”

The bus crested the hill and Lucy sat straight as the village opened beneath her. Bowness-on-Windermere. It was tight, quaint, and cute snuggled against the water. It danced in dappled sunshine, let kids run through its streets, and maintained its decorum. It was Wordsworth; it was Potter; it was Austen.

“And if you don’t find him, are you willing to let it go, come back, and live your life?” Lucy closed her eyes and saw James. Call me crazy, but I say we leave it all here. We take none of this home. “Yes.” “That lacked conviction.” “I’m borrowing some, but it’s enough.”

“I feel like if I could see him, I could put all this behind me and stop making the same mistakes. I’d get unstuck and I want that, Mom. I need that now.” “He won’t be able to give that to you even if he’s cleaned up his act.

“You aren’t any more responsible for your father’s choices than Charlie was for mine.

Enjoy your visit. It seemed so simple, almost too simple, for all she hoped to accomplish here. But perhaps Helen hadn’t said the words blithely. Perhaps that was the proper perspective. This was merely “a visit” and she need only enjoy it. No more, but no less.

She loved that line—true love defined by a pocket comb. It really was that simple, that tangible, and found in day-to-day acts.

While I don’t believe in love at first sight, because I think it takes more work than that, I do believe that one soul can speak to another and find an inexplicably deep connection over a short period of time, unimaginably short, and know that it will never forget that soul, that moment, or the light it emits forever.

“What do you do when that happens?” “That’s a little more complicated, isn’t it? I mean, just because one soul will love another forever, doesn’t mean it should. It doesn’t always work out. But then, as you say, and I’ve come to agree, people change. And when two people figure out how to do that together, then yes, that can last forever.”

“Are you listening, Sam?” Father John finally noticed my wandering eyes. “The Medill program is straight up your alley. You’re a great reader and writer.” “ ‘I deserve neither such praise nor such censure. I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.’ ” Elizabeth Bennet has a useful reply for every situation.

But help is hard, Mr. Knightley—even when I desperately need it.