Worlds of Ink and Shadow (31 page)

She stopped at the base of a small hill for no other reason than to admire the slate blue sky and to take a long pull of crisp air. From over the hill ahead it came: a shadow that resolved itself into a great, black dog. Charlotte's first thought was of Emily's gytrash. Would Zamorna take that form, too? Her heart swelled at the thought, and she took a few steps forward to greet the creature.

“Pilot!” someone called from beyond the rise.

The dog, which was only a dog, turned and cantered back to its master, disappearing from sight. Charlotte's face burned with shame and disappointment. She'd wanted it to be Zamorna. She'd wanted him. Was this why she hadn't been writing? Because deep down she wanted Zamorna to cross over to her, no matter what the consequences? The truth was that she'd tried to write, had wanted to write, but no words came, and the only scene she could imagine was the scene that had played out between her and S'Death.

She was passing a stile that led into a yellow field and decided to sit down on it to rest, and think.

“I will be the last,” she said aloud. There was great relief in letting these words out, even if no one could hear her. These were the words she would have said if Zamorna had come to her,
the words she could speak to no one, but which were always on her lips. She realized she'd been longing for someone to talk to. Someone to tell. “I will be the last Brontë sibling.”

She squeezed her eyes tight, but still the vision of S'Death rose up before her. He had reached out his hand, palm up, and though he hadn't spoken the words aloud, Charlotte had heard them clearly inside her head:
I give you back half the days I took from you, Charlotte Brontë, enough to outlive the others, enough to mourn them all. This is my bargain.

It was their misery he wanted, that's what Emily had said. S'Death knew the guilt Charlotte would feel in taking such an offer, in getting such an unfair reprieve.

“How can I live with it?” she asked aloud. At first she received no response but the sound of crows cawing in the brambles. Then, a voice.

“Charlotte! Charlotte Brontë!”

Something thrilled through her, passing from her head to her extremities, sharp as an electric shock. “Zamorna, is it you?” She listened. The wind sighed. Had it been Zamorna, or someone else?

“Where are you?” said the voice, louder now.

“Oh! I'm coming!” she cried, and at that moment, without thinking about it, a door appeared in front of her like a fissure of light.

Charlotte stared at it. Slowly she turned her head this way and that, looking for a flash of red fox amid the green. She saw
nothing, but he must be there. S'Death. Old Tom. He would always be there, waiting for a moment of weakness.

Charlotte fumbled in her string bag for a stub of pencil. Then, setting a magazine on her knee for a desk, she held her pencil poised over the back of an envelope.

“I will not cross,” she called. “Do you hear, S'Death? I'm through with bargains.”

She gripped her pencil more tightly, trying to think of a scene. Zamorna would be in Angria now. Branwell had made it a magnificent place full of perfumed gardens and alabaster towers. He'd made Zamorna king and Rogue prime minister, though their alliance was already showing cracks and wouldn't last long. Soon Charlotte would be drawn into that story again. Perhaps she would even try to do what she had never been able to do before and resurrect Mary Henrietta. It might work.

But for now . . .

She glanced up and saw that the door still hovered in front of her.

For now she wanted to write something else. She couldn't help but wonder what Zamorna would have been like if he had come up over that hill. What sort of man would he be in her world, if he had been born in Yorkshire? A little burlier, perhaps, a little shorter. His face not handsome, but dark, strong, and stern.

Though she did not look up, she was aware that the door was right in front of her now, almost touching the tips of her toes.
A warm breeze came from it, carrying the scent of unfamiliar blossoms.

“You have lost, Old Tom,” she whispered without looking up. “I will use every extra day you gave me, and I will let none of them be miserable. I will make them a gift and not a burden. I will work and write and draw and study. And . . . and plain as I am, I will marry someone, and it will be for love. If I am to have a life of sorrows, I will not let them conquer me. I will be as brave as Emily, as honest as Anne, even as wicked as Branwell, if I must be, but I will be happy! Do you hear?”

When she glanced up, the door was gone, but Charlotte barely registered the fact. She had chosen her scene. It would be a simple one: a man and a woman in front of a fire. The woman would be herself, a plain Yorkshire governess. The man? He would be a little bit like her father, a little bit like Zamorna, perhaps a little bit like someone she hadn't even met yet. She wasn't quite sure. She might need some time to get the scene right.

What she did know is that she would be her true self in front of him. She would sit across from him by the fire and show him her sketches. She would be his equal, and in being so would make him live.

She set her stub of pencil on the envelope and began to write, knowing he was waiting for her.

Afterword

Although this book is entirely fictional, I have peppered it with references to many true incidents in the lives of the incredible Brontë family. Charlotte's and Emily's unhappy experiences at Clergy Daughters', for instance, were based in fact. Charlotte always held the school responsible for the deaths of her two elder sisters, and readers of
Jane Eyre
will recognize parallels between it and Lowood, the school where Charlotte's heroine suffers many abuses and deprivations.

All the major characters that the siblings write about in
Worlds of Ink and Shadow
were the Brontës' creations, not mine: Zamorna, Rogue, Castlereagh, Mina, Mary Henrietta, and even S'Death. I took many liberties with them, however, as I did with the imaginary worlds that were also theirs—the Glasstown Confederacy (with its capital city of Verdopolis) and Gondal.

The Brontë siblings wrote about these imaginary worlds well into adulthood. Much of Charlotte's and Branwell's early work still survives, written in tiny books or on small scraps of paper in cramped handwriting. Unfortunately, almost all of Anne's and Emily's Gondal stories have been lost, but it's clear that they used many of the same characters in their world, including Branwell's favorite, Alexander Percy, Earl of Northangerland, aka Alexander Rogue. Some scholars theorize that it was in these early writings that Emily began to develop Heathcliff, the famous romantic antihero of
Wuthering Heights
.

Although they died young, all three of the Brontë sisters became published authors, writing under the pseudonyms of Currer, Acton, and Ellis Bell. Only Branwell failed to live up to his potential, succumbing to consumption (tuberculosis) in his early thirties, brought about by his alcoholism and drug addiction. He is probably best known for the portrait of his famous sisters, painted when he was around seventeen, which hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in London. Over time his own figure, which he had painted out, has begun to show through.

Charlotte's first novel,
Jane Eyre
, was a runaway bestseller that caused a great stir in London, with many people speculating about the true identity of its author. Emily's novel,
Wuthering Heights
, was more controversial, loved by some, called “coarse” and “strange” by others. Today both, along with Anne's novels
Agnes Grey
and
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
, are considered classics.

Sadly, Emily and Anne did not get a chance to enjoy their
fame. They, too, developed consumption and, in what must have been a terrible year for Charlotte, died within nine months of their brother. After the death of her siblings, Charlotte revealed to the public that she and her sisters were the famous Bell brothers, and the world marveled that these mild-seeming parson's daughters could create such passionate books.

Charlotte Brontë continued to write and publish, though none of her novels achieved the critical success of
Jane Eyre
. She married Arthur Bell Nicholls, her father's curate, but died a year later at the age of thirty-eight.

The Reverend Patrick Brontë survived all six of his children.

Acknowledgments

I am a slow writer, so by the time I've finished a book, my writing group is usually wholly sick of it. Thank you to Paula Wing, Hadley Dyer, and Kathy Stinson for never saying this out loud, and for the many years of critiques and encouragement. Thanks also to beta readers Georgia Watterson and Anne Laurel Carter.

I read many books on the Brontës while researching this novel, but I'd like to single out two that I referred to again and again: Juliet Barker's biography
The Brontës
, and
Tales of Glass Town, Angria, and Gondal
, edited by Christine Alexander. I'd recommend them to anyone interested in learning more about this extraordinary family.

Peggy Needham corrected my terrible French; Kate Blair weeded out all my Americanisms; and the wonderful Geoff Baines painstakingly helped me to put all of Tabby's speech into
Yorkshire dialect—and then had to be very patient with me when I took it all out again for readability, leaving just a hint of his work.

I received a grant from the Canada Council of the Arts to complete this work, for which I am very grateful.

Sarah Laycock and Ann Dinsdale of the Brontë Parsonage Museum answered all my questions and allowed me to conduct research among the rare and fascinating works in the parsonage archives.

Finally, this book would not exist without the support of four people who are so much smarter than I am: my Canadian editors, Hadley Dyer and Jane Warren (team Emily); my agent, Steven Malk, who has never failed to be there when I needed him; and my US editor, Susan Van Metre (team Charlotte), who was both patient and demanding, in exactly the right measure, and whom I hope to know for many years to come.

About the Author

Lena Coakley was born in Milford, Connecticut, and grew up on Long Island. In high school, creative writing was the only class she ever failed (nothing was ever good enough to hand in!), but, undeterred, she went on to study writing at Sarah Lawrence College. She is now a full-time writer living in Toronto.
Witchlanders
, her first novel, was called “one stunning teen debut” by
Kirkus Reviews
and received an SCBWI Crystal Kite Award.