She definitely had time to write another book before she died, whether it was partially or fully completed. But what happened to it? Did Charlotte kneel by a blazing fire in the parsonage after Emily’s death, her eyes full of tears as she fed in page after page because it was too shocking for publication? It’s possible. Right until the end, she was iron-fisted in her duty to uphold her sister’s reputation. Even if Emily didn’t seem to care what people thought, Charlotte most certainly did. Thanks to Anne’s loosely disguised depiction of Branwell as the debauched Huntingdon inThe Tenant of Wildfell Hall, which I’m now re-reading, there was enough dirty family laundry being aired.
But what if she didn’t toss the pages in the fire? What if she hid them where no one would look?
I re-read the passage I’ve marked inVillette, where Lucy buries the letters under the tree, and the one further on where she’s still dwelling on it in a morbid fashion. Perhaps this was Charlotte’s guilt in plain sight? Maybe she was atoning in some way for not publishing her sister’s book? One sentence really speaks to me:
Sometimes I thought the tomb unquiet, and dreamed strangely of disturbed earth, and of hair, still golden, and living, obtruded through coffin-chinks.
The death imagery is striking, and Emily’s hair was entwined with Anne’s and made into a hair bracelet—one of the more macabre ways the Victorians used to deal with grief. However, her hair was brown, not golden. I don’t know. It’s only a theory, and I could probably nip it in the bud right now by asking Dain what he thinks of it. However, I know he’ll shoot it down in flames and say, ‘There’s not a shred of proof.’ And he’s right—it’s pure conjecture based on afeelingon my part. But if I find something to back it up, he might take it seriously. But what that something is, I have no idea!
Surely, there’s no harm in messaging Dain in general, though, since we’re now on friendly terms; and he said he does want to meet up again. I peek over at Klint, and he’s absorbed in his make-believe battle. Surreptitiously taking my phone from the nightstand, I type,Thanks again for the giant sandwich. When’s good for you to meet up?
I don’t have to wait too long for a reply, and his name appearing on the screen gives me an instant dopamine hit.
Dain:You’re most welcome. What about lunch tomorrow?
Me:Can’t do tomorrow, sorry. The day after?
Dain:Sounds good.
There’s a pause, and I think that’s the end of the conversation, but he sends another message.
Dain:What are you up to?
Me:Now?
Dain:Yes.
I hesitate, my fingers hovering over my phone, reluctant to bring up my theory in case I’m drawn into an online discussion; and it’s way too premature for that. I’m still thinking about it. Besides, if I type too much, Klint will want to know who I’m messaging.
Me:Re-reading The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.
Dain:One of my faves.
Me:Aren’t they all your faves?
Dain:You got me(laughing face emoji)How far are you through?
Me:Two thirds.
Dain:I’ll read it again too and take notes. We can discuss it when we meet up.
Me:You’re going to read the whole thing in a day and a half?
Dain:Fast reading is one of my few talents.
Me:Well, OK, Mr Speedy Reader.
Dain:But just to warn you, I’m also opinionated.
Me:Lol. I can handle a good book debate. Look forward to it.
Dain:Great, I’d better get started!
I imagine him running to his bookshelf and rifling through his box set of Brontë books and giggle to myself. He’s so funny and spontaneous, and I love that he wants to discuss the book with me. It makes me feel special, like he values my opinion. Yes, he is slightly obsessed with the Brontës, but is that a crime? To be honest, I find it endearing.
Chapter 10
Pride refuses to aid me. It has brought me into the scrape,
