Early the next afternoon as Lucy settled into the car, she bumped into a huge wicker basket resting between her seat and Helen’s. “What is this?”
“While you were out gallivanting, I asked Dillon to procure a picnic for us from Fortnum & Mason.” Helen raised her brows and Lucy noticed they were penciled more lightly, giving her a wide-eyed doe appearance.
She directed her gaze back to the basket. “May I peek?”
“Of course.”
Lucy opened the top panel and pushed boxes and jars around in an attempt to see everything. “Olives, shortbread, sparkling water, nuts, lemon cookies, fruit, chocolates . . . What isn’t in here?”
“There had better be some cheeses. I requested a good Stilton.” Helen pulled at the basket’s lid.
“There are at least three cheeses, and crackers too.”
“Lovely.” Helen leaned back as Dillon started the engine. “Tell me about your morning.”
“My gallivanting? It was incredible. I raced around and saw everything I wanted to see.”
“If you’d let us come back . . .”
“I think you’re teasing me and you don’t really want to come back.” Lucy sat back. “You must know it’s time to go. Even these few days feel like we’re stealing from your family.”
“I’m not ready. You may not understand this, Lucy, but to go back, I need to feel strong. And I don’t yet, physically or emotionally. I’m not delaying our return frivolously. I need this, and the calm of Haworth and now the Lake District appeals to me.”
Lucy studied her and accepted the truth of her statement. “Then I won’t question again.”
“Thank you.” Helen reached over the basket and patted Lucy’s shoulder. “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’m glad you went and glad you had fun.”
“I did. 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 . . . I’m sorry you couldn’t join me.”
“You needed to see everything you could.” Helen offered a small smile. “I move more slowly regardless of other factors.”
Dillon pulled onto the highway, and as the start-stop and sharp turns of city driving smoothed straight, with the engine at a constant soft thrum, Helen’s eyes drifted shut and her breathing slowed and deepened.
Lucy grabbed onto the headrest of the passenger seat and leaned toward Dillon.
“Hello.”
“I overheard your morning. Did you see Da Vinci’s notebook at the Library?” Dillon asked wryly.
“Ha! I actually saw that. I didn’t pause, but I did pass it.”
“That’s good . . . Are you excited?” He threw her a wink.
“About Haworth?”
“No, about sitting in a car for three hours and watching cows pass by.”
Lucy thumped the top of his head. “Sarcasm does not become you.”
“Yes, Haworth.”
“I’m not sure.” Lucy watched Helen. Her head had listed toward the window. “There’s so much going on, Dillon. This trip is not what I expected.”
Dillon flickered a glance into his rearview mirror. “She was in a rare mood when I picked you up last night.”
“She was and I wish I could tell you about it—about all of it—but it’s not my story to tell.” Lucy sat back again. “Haworth will be slower. That’ll be good for her. Did you get my text about the Lake District?”
“I did. I told my boss and brought some more clothing. Thank you for that.” Dillon peeked again into the rearview mirror. “She had me put a cane in the trunk. I didn’t know she used one.”
“Neither did I.”
Hours and a good meal later, the car climbed the hill into Haworth, vibrating lightly on the cobblestone street. Lucy could feel the wind kick up and push the car in sideways bursts.
She leaned forward. “Do you feel that?”
Dillon kept his eyes on the road. “You should feel how I’m tugging on this wheel to compensate. The wind’s always blowing around here this time of year, but this is strong. Look at those signs.”
Lucy looked out the window to find the colorful hand-painted signs, meant to hang over the doors, swing parallel to the ground. She also saw several placards that had been blown down or scooted sideways in the wind. Only the light lace or calico draperies hanging inside the windows draped still and peaceful.
Dillon slowed to let another car scuttle past. The shops hugged the curb, never allowing for expansion of the narrow street, and two cars made for a tight fit.
“Welcome to Haworth,” Dillon whispered into the backseat.
Lucy drew herself out of her thoughts. “Even with the wind, it’s like a postcard.”
“Did you catch some of the names?”
“You mean the Brontë Falls? The sale on Jane Eyre’s bath salts? Or the sign for the Brontë Bakery?”
“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.”
“Stop it. There’s no Thornfield Tasty Treats.”
“You Americans aren’t the only brash commercialists,” Dillon quipped.
“I’d hardly call this brash commercialism.”
“Wait until you buy the Cathy tea cozy or Jane Eyre knitting needles, or drink that Wildfell Hall tea. It’ll feel like Disney World.” Dillon pointed out the window. “But for all that, I love it up here. I like the North. I’m from a town just northwest of here and it’s very different from the South. Better, I say.”
“You sound like a book I love.”
“Let me guess, Civil War story?”
“I’m kind of a fiction girl. This one’s an English love story, actually, titled North and South. Margaret from the South looks down on the industrialist, John, from the North, until she falls in love with him. No war, just a couple skirmishes and plenty of sparks.”
“It’s a little that way in reality too. The South still looks down its nose at the North. But I say, let ’em. We get the work done.” Dillon rapped his window. “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.”
Dillon slowed into a tight driveway framed by large stone pillars and parked directly in front of a massive wooden door. The inn was a manor house such as Lucy imagined an eighteenth-century squire owning. It was yellow stone and broad, with lead-paned windows, bays on both floors, and huge stone urns bursting with spring flowers and plantings straddling the front stoop.
Lucy squeezed Helen’s wrist. “We’re here. Are you awake?”
She opened her eyes. “I am. I can’t imagine why I’m so sluggish. It’s hard to keep my eyes open. Do you have any Advil?”
“I do.” Lucy dug into her handbag and tipped two Advil from a small bottle. She handed them to Helen with a water bottle as Dillon walked around the car to open the door.
He handed Helen out as a young woman bustled through the inn’s front door. Lucy caught a glimpse and got the general impression of pale. The young woman was slightly plump and dressed in a white blouse with an equally crisp apron tied over it. Her blonde hair whipped across her face, obscuring any further details.
“Welcome. I’m Bette.” She shook Helen’s hand first then turned to Lucy as she stepped from the car. “Thank you so much for calling this morning and letting me know your arrival time. It was such a help.” She then reached out to Dillon. “If you drive the car around to the garden, the car park has plenty of room.”
Dillon stood still until Helen nudged past him. He grabbed the bags and flashed Bette a thousand-watt smile. “Let me take care of these first and I’ll get right to that.”
Bette held her hair back with her hand as two bright spots of rose burst on her cheeks in reply to Dillon’s eagerness. She appeared flustered as she directed Lucy. “Please walk through to the Great Room. I’ve set out pâté and wine.”
Lucy led Helen up the few stone steps to the foyer, which served as the inn’s lobby and opened up into the second floor. The stairs traveled up the far wall, turned, and continued to the floor above in a circling hallway. There was a fireplace on the right wall with a heavy wooden mantel that matched the exposed beams of the ceiling. Lucy took a deep breath, pulling in the smell of past fires, wood polish, and flowers. “This is beautiful.”
“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.”
Bette led them to a love seat and an armchair set before the fire. She picked up a tiny placard on the small center table. “I reserved this for you as I thought you might be tired, even a little chilled.”
“Thank you.” Helen moved slowly toward the chair.
“Rest here while I check you in and get your keys. Mum is finishing your rooms and we’ll take your bags straight up.”
“Thank you, Bette.” Lucy sat across from Helen and pushed the table out from between them. “Helen, may I see your foot?”
“A lady doesn’t show her ankles.” Helen’s voice was too drained to carry off her joke.
Lucy reached for her right foot and slowly lifted it. “You were limping. Your shoes are too tight.” She slid off Helen’s Belgian-style loafer. “It’s cutting into your foot. Was it like this yesterday? We walked too much. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Helen leaned forward and gaped at her foot, which was slightly purple under her sheer stocking. “It didn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt even now, but I do notice the shoe is off. That feels better.”
“Have you lost feeling?”
“It was simply cramped. It’s fine now.”
Lucy put Helen’s foot back on the floor and slid the shoe next to it. She removed the shoe from Helen’s other foot as well. “You can slip them back on when we go upstairs, but do you have something bigger?”
“I have a pair of loafers I wear with socks. They’re a half size larger. I can wear those.”
Lucy sat back and bit her lip. “This isn’t right, Helen. I’m over my head here.”
“You’re not. My feet are tired and swollen. That’s hardly surprising with all we’ve done. Why don’t you hand me a little of that pâté? Perhaps a small glass of wine?”
“Of course.” Lucy acquiesced and slid the small table back between them.
The sun dipped behind the hill and instantly the room chilled. Lucy poured Helen a glass of wine. “That was nice of her to save the fire seats for us. She must have known that would happen.” She gestured to the window and the last rays of light receding from the hill.
“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.
Lucy poured herself a glass and sat back as well, watching the dark wine take on tones of ruby and raspberry in the firelight. She lifted her gaze and found they weren’t alone. A few guests were scattered about enjoying tea or wine, whispering, reading, or simply looking out the large windows to the field behind.
Bette returned with two keys dangling from purple tassels. Lucy flicked her hand toward the window. “That would be called a moor?”
“Yes. And that particular moor leads right to Top Withens, Wuthering Heights, if you’re up for a walk. I have maps at the front desk.”
“Now we’re in the thick of it.” Lucy motioned to Helen. “Wuthering Heights, right here. Shall we wander in search of Cathy tomorrow?”
“You certainly should.”
Lucy dropped her eyes to Helen’s feet and saw her discreetly tuck them farther under the love seat’s skirt. She returned her attention to Bette. “Is the Brontë Parsonage open too?”
“Every day from nine to five o’clock.” Bette surveyed the room. “Would you excuse me? I apologize, but there are a few dinner details left. We had someone call in sick and we’re short staffed.”
“Absolutely.” Lucy took both keys from her. “Where do we find our rooms?”
“You’re at the top of the stairs to the right. Your driver offered to carry your cases up, so I showed him the rooms and everything is all situated for you.”
“Thank you. We’ll sit here a few more minutes and then head up. I believe we have dinner reservations for seven o’clock.” Lucy glanced to Helen as if asking if that plan still suited her.
“We’ll be ready whenever you’d like to eat. The dining room is through that doorway behind you and there will only be two other couples besides yourselves tonight, so please come whenever you wish.”
“Thank you,” Helen chimed into the conversation as Bette hurried away. “She’s working hard, that one.”
“Sure looks like it. I feel like I should be helping somehow.”
Helen smiled. “I got the impression Dillon will make himself available. Didn’t you?”
“You caught that too?” Lucy grinned. “I thought he was going to fall over himself right there on the front stoop.”
“He did and don’t you dare tease him. He’s a good boy.”
“Fine,” Lucy mock-moaned. “I hardly think that’s— Hello.”
Dillon strode into the room right to them. “Your bags are in your rooms and I thought I’d go . . .” He stalled.
“Come join us.” Helen opened her hand languidly to the seat next to Lucy as if she had all day and simply wanted to chat.
“Thank you.” Dillon sat and rubbed his knees. He shifted in his seat.
“Tell me. How are the rooms?” Helen’s voice was light—and fake.
“They’re real comfortable. You’ll be pleased.” He shifted again.
“Dillon, would you mind asking that nice young woman . . . I can’t remember her name . . .”
“Bette,” Dillon offered.
“Yes. Would you mind asking Bette if there’s any help you might give? She seems overwhelmed this evening and—”
“Be glad to, ma’am.” And he was off.
“You said I couldn’t tease him.” Lucy laid a hand over her forehead and simpered, “I simply can’t remember her name.”
“I couldn’t resist.”
“You are having fun, aren’t you?” Lucy studied Helen. Even if Helen was feeling unwell, she seemed lighter. “I know all that’s ahead . . . but you seem happy. Your eyes . . . It’s hard to describe. They’re clearer. Sid would call them ‘Mountain Blue’ right now. Even in the firelight, they’re bright, and he says the deepest, clearest skies are only above mountains.”
“I like that. To me, they feel wider too. Do they look it?”
“They do.”
Helen sighed. “I’m unwinding in a way I don’t think I ever have before. I think I’d grant every favor asked right now, so don’t call my granddaughters.” She winked and raised her glass in salute.
Lucy took a sip of wine and knew what she should ask . . . Can we go home now? Helen needed it, Charlie needed it, James needed it—they all did. But she asked nothing.