The solution came with the postman the following morning. A letter with a return address printed on a gold label on the back of the envelope filled me with excitement – Honresfield Library. I had written requesting access to their vast collection of papers, manuscripts and letters, specifically those pertaining to the Bront? sisters. The owners, Alfred and William Law, were two self-made industrialist brothers, who grew up near the Bront? family home and had acquired some of their manuscripts from a literary dealer. I was taking my first tentative steps as a literary sleuth – thanks to Sylvia igniting the passion for a second Emily Bront? novel at Shakespeare and Company. There was just one problem: I would have to return to England to investigate further.
It was a risk, but now it seemed even more of a risk to stay. I had to put some distance between myself and Matthew. Besides, did I want to pour all of my energy into another doomed liaison, or concentrate on my work? I nodded in the affirmative. My work. That was where my true passion was to be found. I considered the logistics; The Honresfield Library was in Rochdale, near the Laws’ factory. That was over two hundred miles away from London, so I was unlikely to run into anyone I knew. I thought of Emily’s poem ‘No Coward Soul Is Mine’ and, without realising it, had already made up my mind to go.
I finally felt as though I were leaving Opaline Carlisle, the girl, behind. Miss Gray would become the woman I always wanted to be. As I glanced out into the street, I noticed that the stained-glass patterns had shifted and were now the shape of a vast and rolling moorland with a path leading up to a grand farmhouse.
‘Wuthering Heights,’ I whispered to myself.
Chapter Twenty
MARTHA
I began to read the book at night. There was something sacred about those quiet, dark hours that made it feel special. I lit some candles (despite Madame Bowden’s repeated warnings against it) and arranged some cushions on the floor. It felt a bit like a seance at times because the strange noises in the walls wouldn’t stop until I settled down to read. The branches spreading across the wall were now freeing themselves from the plaster and I half expected to find leaves growing. Instead, a new book appeared. Normal People by Sally Rooney, the book I had seen at the library.
It was Madame Bowden. I didn’t know how she was doing it, but with her theatrical background, anything was possible. It was quite sweet actually, her quirky ways of encouraging me to read. If only she knew that I was carrying someone else’s story on my skin. Another line had come to me that morning while I was polishing the floors. I knew my mind wouldn’t rest until it was inked on my skin permanently. I had no idea what the story meant, how long it would be or whose words they were but the biggest mystery was why they were being told to me. I could never tell anyone; hearing voices was definitely still frowned upon, as far as I knew. But that was just it, I wasn’t hearing a voice as such, the words just showed up.
A Place Called Lost was a much simpler story to understand and it seemed to be written for children, which suited me fine. At least in children’s books nothing terrible happened, and if it did, it always got fixed by the end. It told the story of an old library in a remote Italian village. It was so remote, in fact, that it was said only people who wandered off the beaten track and became hopelessly lost could find it. A charming wooden building, it held ancient volumes stacked from the floor to the ceiling, arranged without apparent order. The guardian of the library was so old that no one could remember a time when he had not been there.
Yet one day, as he locked the outer gate at the end of the day, a violent storm blew up out of nowhere and the poor old man was hit by lightning. However, that was not the end of the story. Still wayward travellers would stumble across the faraway library and, despite the guardian’s absence, would find themselves drawn to a certain book and, upon reading it, find the course of their lives completely changed. It was as though the library itself, the very fabric of its being, could intuit which book would help a lost soul to find their true path. But the locals feared what they did not understand and wanted the library destroyed. They believed that the building was haunted and that spirits were trapped within the pages of the books, waiting for a reader to set them free. And so it was that the books were taken out and dispersed across the land; but before the building was knocked down, a young man on his honeymoon arrived with a proposal. He would take the wood to build his own shop. In Ireland.
I knew this story was no mere coincidence. In fact, sometimes when I slowly read the enchanting lines on each page I felt as though my entire life was an elaborate plot line that would now somehow make sense, in this context, in this place and with these people. Person. Henry. I could already feel my ability to read him fading and I knew what that meant. My judgement was becoming clouded with that one emotion I could no longer afford to have. Love.
Before I blew out the candle, I read a line that made up my mind. In the story, there was a young woman who came to the library, miles away from her true home. She read a story about a girl who had come to a fork in the road and was so afraid of making the wrong decision that she stayed where she was, huddled in the hollow of a tree. After several days, an old woman came along and told her a riddle. She asked, ‘What is something you create, even if you do nothing?’ The answer was a choice. Choosing not to do something was still a choice.
I was choosing not to register for college because I was too scared. What I hadn’t realised was that I was actively choosing to stay stuck where I was, which scared me even more.
The following morning I rang the admissions office and arranged an interview for the very next day. I felt empowered, strong, terrified and excited. There was no going back now, I assured myself, and hardly thought anything of it when the doorbell rang after I’d served Madame Bowden her breakfast. I opened the door with a spontaneous smile on my face, which fell the moment I saw him standing there.
It was too late to run. Besides, he had that look about him. The remorseful one, where he would promise me a brand-new start. I spotted the crumpled bouquet of flowers in his hand – even they looked brittle and half-hearted. I knew the routine; we had been through it so many times before. I felt my body becoming heavier as I came closer to him, the weight of being around him already crushing me.
‘Howareya,’ he said, bashfully, head lowered. All innocence.
‘What are you doing here, Shane?’
He opened his mouth to speak, but then an overriding thought came to me. ‘How did you find me?’
‘A mate of mine was up for the day, shopping with the missus. He spotted you.’
‘Where?’
‘On Grafton Street.’
‘So—’ I was trying to calculate it in my head. ‘How did he know I lived here? Did–did he follow me? Was it Mitch?’ I didn’t even have to ask. I knew it was Mitch. He was Shane’s best friend and would have thought nothing of spying on me.
‘Look,’ he said, taking a step closer, which caused me to step back. He seemed visibly upset by this, as though my fear of him was an overreaction on my part entirely. ‘Martha, does it matter how I found you?’
‘It does actually. Do you think it’s normal to have your goons following me around?’
‘Mitch isn’t a goon. Jesus.’
A couple walked past and gave us a wary glance.