“Not so. This event is for anyone who has a ticket.” Gerald held up his lanyard with glee. “And since I am in possession of such a ticket, the Argleton branch of the Brontë Society will enjoy the weekend as we wish.”
The man on stage bristled. “Very well. Take a seat, for I wish to continue my lecture.”
Gerald held up a finger. “Not so fast. We should like to correct you on one or two salient points. Namely, that your Mr. Darcy is in any way a romantic hero and a sexual being.”
“Lord Fitzwilliam Darcy was the greatest romantic hero of all time.” Mrs. Maitland stood up, her face red with anger.
“Darcy was a shit!” yelled a girl wearing black fishnet top over a PVC bra. “He’s an uptight, bullish snob who gets off on manipulating people, and he needs to check his privilege!”
“He was also a monumental bore at parties,” added another girl in a black-and-white striped Beetlejuice dress of which I was deeply envious. “At least you know Heathcliff would be spiking the punch and in reckless skullduggery.”
Heathcliff leaned forward. “Now I’m interested,” he whispered.
“Just so you know, I’d choose you over Darcy any day,” I whispered back. “And not just because this dress is ridiculously impractical for running about the moors.”
“As much as I admire your enthusiasm, Gerald, and as much as there are those among us who may secretly feel Emily Brontë to be the superior writer, Heathcliff was never meant to be held up as an example of a romantic hero,” Professor Carmichael said from the front of the room. “Wuthering Heightsis a story of toxic obsession and bitter revenge, and of the next generation washing away the sins of the past—”
“All Heathcliff was good for was headbutting trees and snogging skeletons,” Professor Hathaway sneered, rudely cutting off his colleague. “If you like your sexual partners twisted by jealousy and made ugly by their desire for revenge, Hannah, well, then, I can see why you chose Gerald.”
Gerald’s face blazed. He wrenched himself from Hannah’s grip and stormed toward the stage, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The crowd surged as it became apparent a fight was about to break out. David leaped to his feet and rushed toward the stage. Two of Lydia’s graduate student admirers moved in front of the steps that accessed the stage. Gerald whirled on his heels.
“Come down here and say that to my face, old man.” Gerald’s words dripped with menace.
“Go home, Gerald,” Hathaway said. “I can smell the alcohol on your breath. This is not the forum to stir up dissent about our beloved Mr. Darcy.”
“Yeah!” A Janeite in the middle of the room stood up. “Darcy is a thoroughly decent man underneath his pompous exterior, far more worthy of admiration than that vicious, dog-murdering sociopath—”
“Ouch,” Heathcliff muttered.
“Decent?” Hannah scoffed. “If decent gets you off, lady, then why are you all here fawning overthatman?” She jabbed an accusatory finger at Professor Hathaway. “Nothing he does with graduate students could be described as decent—”
“Careful,” warned Hathaway. “That’s an accusation against my good character that could ruin my career. If I were a less congenial man, I might consider legal repercussions for this baseless accusation—”
“It’s hardly baseless!” Carmichael yelled. “You’ll soon find out just how little tolerance the world has for your behavior.”
“Are you threatening me, Professor?” Hathaway’s voice sounded amused. “If this is revenge because I rejected your sexual advances, then it’s very petty, rather like Gerald’s hero Heathcliff.”
“I resent that,” Heathcliff muttered.
“That never happened!” Carmichael roared. “You’re lying, just like you’ve been lying to your daughter! But we’ll get you.”
In front of me, Alice stiffened. I wondered if Carmichael’s comment had something to do with what they’d been discussing earlier.Hathaway must be the subject of Alice’s article.
“Bring on your legal repercussions, old man!” Gerald yelled back. “I’m not afraid of you and your horde of Austen sycophants!”
“That’s enough!” Cynthia yelled. “Gentleman, ladies, please be civilized. Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to block the aisle in this fashion, as it’s a fire hazard. I see some empty seats near the back. If you and your entourage would but take a seat and be silent, we can continue with the proceedings. You’ll have plenty of time to debate the questionable merits of Heathcliff outside of the plenary sessions.”
Gerald cast his gaze between Hathaway and Cynthia, and to the blonde girl – Hathaway’s aforementioned daughter, I guessed – cowering in David’s arms. His shoulders sagged. “Very well. But I’m watching you and your wandering hands, old man.”
As the group slid into the seats opposite us, I noticed Alice frantically scribbling. I leaned over her chair and tapped her on the shoulder. “Do you know what just happened?” I asked Alice.
“I should think you’d recognize Gerald Bromley,” she replied. “He’s a bit of a local character. He’s president of the local Brontë Society. Those gothic beauties are his executive committee and they hang off every word he says. Apparently, he used to be one of Hathaway’s graduate students, before they had some kind of falling out and Gerald was dismissed from his graduate program. He works locally as a consultant for English Heritage properties and grand estates, helping them run events and tours with historical accuracy. Cynthia offered him a handsome sum to be on the committee for this event, but when he heard Hathaway was the guest of honor, he threw a big stink and quit.”
“Then why is he here?”
She shrugged. “Janeites and Brontians have a famous rivalry, but I suspect it’s personal. Gerald’s probably here just to rattle Professor Hathaway.”
If that was Gerald’s intention, he succeeded. Hathaway stumbled through the rest of his speech without his previousjoy de vivre. On two occasions, David even had to point to his place in his notes.
