The vanished bride, p.8
The Vanished Bride, page 8
“Branwell doesn’t appear to be able to keep work.” Charlotte sighed.
“Well, I don’t want to go in,” Emily said with some determination. “I could just wait outside. Or go home. I could go home and wait for news.”
“News of what?” Charlotte looked at her.
“Anything?” Emily offered hopefully.
“I’m afraid not, Emily—you can’t just join in with this enterprise when the mood takes you. If you are determined to be a detector, then you must be ready to face situations of great danger.”
“I don’t mind danger,” Emily said. “It’s polite conversation I can’t abide.”
“Think of it as a means to an end,” Charlotte said. “We appear to be making small talk, but in fact we are interrogating witnesses.”
“That does sound more interesting,” Emily conceded.
“In any event, our main concern is to not draw undue attention,” Charlotte said, casting around for a more suitable destination. “So I suggest we take the time to visit the clothier instead—perhaps they might have some interesting fabrics, and seamstresses do like to gossip, do they not?”
Without waiting for any further assent, Charlotte hooked her arm through Emily’s and guided them down the street. Despite her wishes to remain incognito, the two women made a striking pair as they walked through the steep streets of Arunton, their pattens clacking on the cobbles. Though sisters, their disparity in height and gait should have made them utterly incongruous to the casual onlooker, but instead the two of them together had quite the opposite effect.
There was an indefinable bond between them that could not be ignored. In every negative space and shape their linked arms and mismatched hips created, there was a deep abiding closeness. For Charlotte and Emily had turned more corners into the unknown together than with any of the other members of their beloved family. They had been lost girls together at the dreaded Cowan Bridge, and both teacher and pupil at Roe Head school, and each had kept the other sane when they worked together at the Pensionnat Héger in Brussels, encountering challenges and difficulties whose burden they had shared equally. And perhaps more than anything, it had been Emily’s companionship that had been her solace as Charlotte lost her heart to her master, Monsieur Héger. Though they rarely spoke of those few intense months, even as they were unfolding, Emily’s stalwart and strong nature had been Charlotte’s safe haven. Even after she left for home, Emily remained Charlotte’s tacit confessor, the only other living person who truly knew the depth of Charlotte’s thwarted love. And now that those days in Brussels were slipping ever further away, Emily was all that Charlotte had left of the life that she had lived there; Emily was the proof that said, “Yes, that happened, all of it. I know because I witnessed it. You have not lost your mind.”
In return, Charlotte was Emily’s unwitting beacon, leading her on, challenging her to reveal her own precious and jealously guarded secret: her immense, breathtaking talent.
There was trust between the two of them, and an accord that made the mismatched pair fit perfectly. And in this new business of detecting they would carry on just as they always had, infuriating and baiting each other, and never being anything less than entirely loyal.
A bell chimed as they entered the little shop.
“Good day, ladies.” A pleasant-looking woman, her steel hair neatly pinned under a cap that reminded Charlotte of her much-missed aunt Branwell, greeted them. “I’m Mrs. Hardy—are you visiting for the day?”
It was a pretty little shop, bisected by a broad cloth-cutting table that also served as the counter, and floor-to-ceiling display shelves carrying a limited range of bolts of cloth, although some of them appeared rather fine, especially a coppery-looking satin silk that Charlotte immediately set her heart on. It looked, from what the sisters could see of the work in progress, as if most of their trade came from mending and remaking what had already been worn, a skill with which all the Brontë daughters had become begrudgingly familiar.
“Good day, yes, we are visiting from Haworth.” Charlotte smiled, careful not to volunteer more information than was polite. “My sister and I have a little idle time and thought to look at your fabrics. We are always most interested in the latest designs.”
“Well, we have many patterns here, and any we do not have we can obtain,” Mrs. Hardy told them proudly. “I keep abreast of the London and Paris fashions too, for why shouldn’t our Yorkshire lasses look just as fine as those city ladies, if not a good deal finer?”
“Indeed,” said Charlotte, assessing Mrs. Hardy. Hardworking and neat, she was the epitome of a professional Yorkshirewoman. This was the kind of woman Charlotte understood, the kind she had known all her life. The kind of woman, though her shop might be modest, who would have a knowledge and passion for her subject that were extensive, and who would most likely take great joy in conversing on such matters.
In Charlotte’s experience, almost everyone wanted to feel interesting, and as soon as you had achieved that happy state, they would become ready friends. With this fine woman all she had to do was build a little trust.
“Tell me what is the latest fashion for sleeves? I would so appreciate your expertise.”
As Charlotte talked, Emily turned her back on her sister and Mrs. Hardy, walking her fingers along the shelves of bolts of cloth, searching out stories and faces in every pattern, until they stopped on one and lingered. Glancing back at her sister, Charlotte knew that Emily was, for the moment at least, lost to another realm.
“Oh my,” Charlotte said, her eyes lighting up at the sight of one of the latest patterns, featuring long fitted sleeves gathered a little around the wrists. “How pleasing the neckline is. Do you make many beautiful gowns? I can see how very fine your tailoring is.”
“The most beautiful I ever made was for a lovely young bride,” Mrs. Hardy preened happily. “Not her wedding gown, that came out of Leeds, but her trousseau. Such fine fabrics and designs, for she was a very particular young lady, and so beautiful.”
“Was?” Charlotte asked as casually as she was able, keeping her eyes on the designs.
“It’s been a long while since we’ve seen the lady in the village,” Mrs. Hardy said, and Charlotte noticed her physically turning away from the temptation to gossip with an outsider. “We don’t expect to see her again soon. It would be improper for me to say more.”
“Where do you source your lace?” Charlotte said, picking up the end of a piece of finely wrought trim. “Mrs. Hardy, you have quite the most exquisite taste.”
Mrs. Hardy beamed. “I employ a local maker exclusively. The woman makes it as fine as on the continent, with the benefit that you will never see this design elsewhere.”
“How wonderful.” Charlotte smiled. “Tell me, why do you not see the young lady anymore, has she moved away?”
Mrs. Hardy’s smile faded a little.
“It’s really not my place to say,” she said, stoutly. “May I show you anything else?”
“Of course, I quite understand, we are from a small village—parson’s daughters. I understand the importance of discretion; so many are disposed to idle gossip, are they not? I can see you are a woman of great character.”
“Parson’s daughters?” Mrs. Hardy’s face softened. “It’s a hard life for a young woman.”
“We make do.” Charlotte let her accent broaden just a little, as she frowned thoughtfully, lowering her head. “Tell me, is the bride you speak of Mrs. Chester of Chester Grange? For to speak true, we have heard about the trouble at the Grange. So distressing and shocking.”
“Indeed it was.” Mrs. Hardy chewed her lip, refusing to meet Charlotte’s eyes.
“But there is cause for hope, wouldn’t you say?” Charlotte casually fingered the corner of a fine wine damask that she would have dearly loved to purchase, but alas, new dresses were a luxury that was at present out of their reach. “Perhaps Elizabeth Chester will be found and all will come good.”
“No good can come from that house,” Mrs. Hardy blurted, her cheeks reddening with what Charlotte realised was repressed rage. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t speak of it. It’s just that she was such a fine and sweet young lady.”
“Is,” Charlotte said mildly. “Until we know her fate for certain we must say ‘is.’”
“Perhaps she did run away,” Mrs. Hardy said bleakly, folding and refolding a length of silk in a bid to hide her distress. “All I can say is that she was as devoted to her children as any mother could be—she would never leave them. You’d see her most afternoons out for a walk with them, her and young Miss French. You’d see how she’d always have her baby on her hip, how she’d hold young Master Francis’s hand, and take real care to notice things that he might like: a beetle, maybe, or an interesting stone. That poor lad blossomed under her sweetness and love—she cared for him as if he were her own. I just can’t see how she’d abandon those children. Not for anything. Not even for a . . . not for anything.”
Charlotte noticed the slip, but let it pass by. If you wanted to extract a story from a stranger, timing was everything.
“How frightening to think there might be a madman abroad who has carried her away, perhaps keeping her captive even now!”
Mrs. Hardy shook her head bitterly, and Charlotte could sense the stream of words that she was doing her very best to keep dammed up behind her closed lips.
Charlotte reached out and briefly covered the other woman’s hand, offering an implied reassurance of discretion. Fixing her with her clear eyes, she held Mrs. Hardy’s gaze until the woman was finally hers. This was one particular skill that was Charlotte’s alone, the ability to draw out any information from nearly anyone she encountered if she wished it, to will them to talk to her, to trust her. Only those she held in very high esteem or was directly related to seemed immune.
“Perhaps you have your own idea of what has happened?”
“Well, it’s no secret his first wife died by her own hand.” The seamstress lowered her voice, as if it was indeed a very grave secret. “Been married less than two years too. Back then, and it were only five or so years ago, there were more staff up at the Grange, and I was one of them. I saw them carry away her body, limp as a rag doll. It were a terrible, terrible sight—one I shall never forget, that poor woman. Imogen Chester was a good woman. When she came to the village, we hoped things would settle up at the Grange. She made sure to know us all by name, asked after our families, sent medicine for the children . . . and she were so proud of little Francis—but she was as fragile as organza. Perhaps if she’d been cared for she might have thrived, but she was poorly done by, very poorly done by. Cruelty broke her, and I knew the minute I saw the second wife that . . . Well, she were such a slip of a girl. He’s a cruel man, cold as you like, has been since he were a boy. And then there was the day I saw . . .”
Mrs. Hardy stopped herself.
“Saw?” Charlotte prompted her gently.
“I’ve already said too much. I meant not to, but you have such a kind face, miss, and I am so very sad for young Mrs. Chester, I quite forgot myself. But her husband is my landlord.” Mrs. Hardy turned her face away from Charlotte. “I really should not say more.”
“You have nothing to fear from us, madam, I assure you.” Charlotte smiled. “No one will ever know what you say to us, and if it helps you unburden your heart a little, then what harm can it do?”
“Well, it’s just that . . .”
“I shall take a length of this,” Emily said, unloading an armful of fabric onto the counter. “Enough for a day dress.”
“That?” Charlotte looked down at the fabric, raising her brows.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” Emily beamed, searching about in her pockets for coins.
Charlotte didn’t want to raise the subject of their straitened circumstances in front of Mrs. Hardy, but nevertheless she gave Emily a long, hard look, which she hoped conveyed her concern for her frivolous purchase. As ever, Emily remained one of the few people who was entirely oblivious to Charlotte’s long, hard looks. She counted out the coins onto the counter and smiled with great satisfaction.
“It’s covered with thunder clouds and lightning bolts,” Charlotte stated as she stared at the curious design, as otherworldly and as wild as Emily herself. “I’m not sure I have ever seen a fabric made with such a design.”
“Exactly, and the garment I shall make from it will be a great storm of a dress,” Emily said happily, smiling at Mrs. Hardy as she acknowledged her for the first time. “Please have it delivered to the Parsonage at Haworth.”
“Mrs. Hardy, you were saying?” Charlotte asked gently as the older woman wrapped up the material.
“I cannot say more.” Mrs. Hardy had closed up again, like a daisy on a cloudy afternoon. “Except that the truth will out. One way or another, it always does.”
Charlotte stood aside as Emily completed her transaction. If only Mrs. Hardy had completed her sentence, but now the moment was past, and she couldn’t see a way to bring about such an opportunity again without looking suspicious.
“What did you see that day?” Emily asked Mrs. Hardy, who blinked rapidly at the question. “You were about to tell my sister of something you saw that may have something to do with the fate of Elizabeth Chester, were you not? What was it?”
Emily always was very direct.
“I was collecting piecework from my women in the village,” Mrs. Hardy said. “May, it was. It was a pretty day, so I cut across the Chester woods to see the bluebells, and that’s when I happened upon her.”
“Elizabeth Chester?” Emily pressed.
“The very same.” Mrs. Hardy nodded. “In the arms of a man who was certainly not her husband.”
12
Anne
Although their second visit to the upper floors of Chester Grange was essentially as invited persons, Anne felt a deep unease as she and Branwell followed Mattie up the central staircase, watched closely by at least a dozen ancestral portraits. Grimed with decades of candle smoke and dust, they appeared to Anne like a counsel of ghosts observing her every move.
Thanks to the long windows, the upper halls were light, with high, ornately plastered ceilings. Even so it was impossible not to feel the silent clamour of a multitude of vacant rooms echoing all around them, nor their neglected chill, empty of everything but memories and secrets.
“That is the nursery, which as you can see adjoins my room,” Mattie whispered, as she led Branwell and Anne from the room where the two dear little boys slumbered. “What I find most . . . perplexing . . . is that when there is a disturbance during the night, be it the banging, or the rattling, or a terrible, terrible cold, it never encroaches on the children’s room. Every time I run to them, seeking to protect them from whatever it is that makes the great din outside my door, in there all is silent, peaceful and warm.”
“Like a sanctuary,” Anne said thoughtfully. “A protected place in the midst of such . . . danger.” Anne wasn’t sure why that word came to mind, but it was the way she felt, as if the whole of Chester Grange was one great steel trap, set to snap shut at any second.
“And this is my room.”
Anne looked around Mattie’s room—not uncomfortable, but shabby and cold. The curtained bed looked a hundred years old, and there was very little of Matilda French present, beyond a few well-thumbed novels and a rather sad collection of trinkets held in an upturned clamshell. All in all it could be any governess’s room—it could have been Anne’s at Thorp Green. Suddenly, she pictured row upon row of faceless unwanted women who were neither young nor pretty, neither well connected nor rich, and therefore seemed not to matter a jot. Though she had accepted it, the path of a governess had not been the life Anne would have chosen for herself, her sisters or anyone with a human heart. That awful purgatory of being neither servant nor family, that constant suspended state which was the opposite of belonging: Anne would rather do anything else than return to that work, for it was an entirely thankless existence. Just the sight of Mattie’s sorry room made her want to scoop up her friend and take her home to a place where people would be pleased to see her. Perhaps, in his way, Branwell had saved her from this awful life, after all. Even so, she had a duty to support herself and contribute to her family somehow, and so it seemed an inescapable fate, and there were far worse.
“Well, so far I don’t think we’ve found any clues,” Branwell said, striding into the room, his masculinity quite at odds with the chaste simplicity of the chamber. “Not that I am entirely sure what a clue looks like. Does it have feathers, do you think, Matilda? Perhaps a tail?”
He smiled, and Mattie blushed, readily taking his arm as he escorted her out of her room. At least he made Mattie smile, Anne supposed. That was something that could be said for Branwell; his eager, almost desperate determination to chase away hurt with any kind of quick pleasure could be a balm, not just to himself but to those around him. That’s probably why he had so many friends around Haworth, and further abroad. That and his willingness to foot the bill, whether he could afford it or not.
Just as she was leaving, Anne caught sight of something that she recognised, a tiny framed sampler exactly like one Charlotte had made as a girl, though not as precisely stitched. Picking it up, Anne read the Bible verse embroidered below rows of sample stitches, letters and numbers: “My humility and the fear of the Lord. are. riches. honour and life.” Another example of how, no matter how fiercely their minds might burn within, the world saw all of them, all women and girls, as one creature, a creature to be tamed and oppressed, heads bent over identical, meaningless pursuits.
Just as she was about to set the frame back down on the mantle, Anne felt something tucked into the back of it. Tugging at the object, she pulled out a folded scrap of torn paper. She glanced at it and tucked it into her sleeve, uncertain of what it meant, but certain that it meant something.
