Solsbury Hill A Novel (8 page)

Embarrassed, she said, “Um, thank you?”

“I take it you’re the lady of the manor.” He bowed and Eleanor wasn’t sure if he was mocking her or being kind or what he was doing.

“Are you Mead?”

He bobbed his head forward and back, his top lip buried in his bottom lip. Solemn. “I am.” He waved to her and went into the front hall and out the front door.

In the kitchen, Gwen had just made a thick sandwich and was about to make another.

“Tilda’s making some chicken and potatoes for Alice, but I’m having a sandwich. Which would you rather?”

“I’d love a sandwich.”

“It’s not a proper dinner,” she said as she set her sandwich on the table for Eleanor, “but we’re all turned about in terms of schedule. Did you rest well?” Gwen went back to start a sandwich for herself.

“I slept for a bit and took a wonderful bath.”

“Did you and Alice have a good talk?”

“We did.”

A bowl of fresh brown and green eggs sat beside bottles of wine on the counter, next to the flour bin, the sugar bin, and the saltcellar. There were crystal glasses and stacks of dishware on one of the counters, a few open cardboard boxes on the floor. Tilda hummed as she stirred butter into a bowl with boiled potatoes and basil. The mood in the house was cheerful. It wasn’t at all the same feeling she’d had when Gwen had called, sounding desperate and urging her to come.

Eleanor hadn’t dealt with a house full of family in a long time. After her mother died, her father withdrew from her and five years later died of what they called a massive coronary, but she knew it was a broken heart. For so long, she’d only dealt with herself, with some friends, with small choices and never anything extended.

Sitting with Gwen in the warm kitchen, Eleanor confided, “Aunt Alice started to tell me something about a bad habit the women in the family have, a habit of picking between two loves and choosing the wrong one. She was tired before
she started and got more tired as she spoke and then fell asleep midsentence, so I didn’t really get it. Do you know what she was talking about?”

“Ah, the bad habit, where to begin?” Gwen rolled her eyes. “This house is rumored to have been the house of Heathcliff and Catherine. The real Heathcliff and Catherine, somehow . . .”

“I didn’t know the book was based on something real.”

“It isn’t. That’s just the rumor here, and Alice has picked up a tale about something in the bloodline, a tendency—she calls it a habit. The idea is that it runs in the blood and inclines the daughters of the family to choose the wrong man, between two men. Of course, it’s never been clear at all to me that Heathcliff would have been the right choice for Catherine.”

“Heathcliff was the great romance, wasn’t he?”

“Not by me, but the trouble with all this is that if one tries to choose the right way in anything, one will get all turned about and confuse oneself entirely. I’m not sure why Alice brought it up, really. It’s nothing you need to be thinking about.”

Eleanor responded, “Well, I guess one of those bloodline daughters would be me.”

A different young woman, someone Eleanor hadn’t seen before, passed through the kitchen with a bundle of wood in her arms. She didn’t look up, didn’t say a word. Eleanor didn’t have time to offer to help her before she disappeared.

“Let’s go on in,” Gwen said, with her own sandwich on a plate. “Come on.” Gwen led the way under the stairs to a much smaller room not nearly as fine in its decor, but with another stone fireplace. The walls were lined with half-empty bookcases. There were two deep armchairs, so Eleanor took one and Gwen sat in the other with the plate on her lap.

“Did Alice make a wrong choice?”

Gwen flushed red and said, “I certainly hope not.”

They shared a smile and Eleanor considered what Gwen implied.

“There have to be two choices and for Alice and me there’s always been just the one.”

“That’s good, that’s so nice,” Eleanor said. She realized they were a couple. “I’m confused, though. Then who made the wrong choice?”

“All I know is what I’ve heard, and what I’ve heard has a good deal of fancy wrapped about it, but it had to do with a couple who took in their friend’s orphaned daughter, more than a hundred years ago. The child was named Victoria, and she grew up in this house, married the family’s son, inherited Trent Hall, and set the entail to pass the estate the way it does.”

Eleanor was fixed on a thought she couldn’t shake, but she wasn’t sure why as she spun the ring on her finger. Her skin was cold and her head was filled with ancestors she’d never known. “And did
she
choose the wrong man?”

“What an interesting question,” Gwen said. She looked at
Eleanor intently. “Goodness, you’re worried about this. Are you facing a romantic crossroads?”

“No, not really. No.” Eleanor pulled herself up taller in the chair and realized she was preoccupied about the beautiful black ring failing to protect her from heartache.

“You’re from the New World, dear. Old Yorkshire tales can’t touch you.”

Tilda dropped a glass and it shattered. Worried, she looked about and apologized.

“They’re old glasses, it’s all right, Tilda,” Gwen said. “That’s a good sandwich, isn’t it?” she said to Eleanor.

“Very.” Eleanor took her last bite. “I met Mead in the hall.”

“Ah, that’s good. I’ve been meaning to find him for you.”

Gwen put her plate aside and knelt by the fireplace. “You know, dear, Alice’s mind is fairly muddled. She’s just recently been put on morphine. It really is the end, and sometimes she seems to be working very hard on something. I see it in her face, like she’s puzzling through decades, maybe more than that, putting things in order. She wanted you to come so she could see you and touch you and I don’t think she imagined it would really come to pass. I know she’s overwhelmed with wanting to catch up and tell you everything she’s ever known, make an impact.” Gwen’s eyes were awash with tears that didn’t fall. “But she’s made things simple for you. This place takes rather good care of itself so it won’t be any burden when it all comes to you.”

“To me?” Eleanor was taken aback.

“Good God, I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?”

Eleanor was stunned. She thought back through what Alice had said to her. “It all coming to me, what does that mean?”

“You’re the first daughter in this generation. Clearly, Alice didn’t say anything.”

“No. Not in so many words. She told me about Mead, and about this ring, and I guess she said the ring and the house went together, but I didn’t put it together. The house is coming to me?” She stood up and then sat down again. “I guess that’s what she meant.” On the sideboard there were crystal decanters with whisky and some cocktail glasses. “I’m going to pour myself some of that.” Eleanor stood up and walked to get herself a glass. “Can I pour you one, Gwen?”

“Absolutely. This is altogether too much coming at you.”

“A bit.” Eleanor threw back two fingers of whisky then poured another and one for Gwen. She handed Gwen her glass and sat down. “Upside down and inside out is what I feel. I can’t live here, you know. I can’t stay.”

“You don’t have to. Most estates can’t keep themselves, can’t make it without opening up to the public in one way or another, but this one takes care of itself, produces quite a lot of income.”

“Income from what?”

“The livestock, rapeseed oil, heather and lavender, rentals
from properties in the village. Alice has been vigorous about making the most of this place.”

With whisky warming her, Eleanor gazed at the jet ring on her hand and said, “Why didn’t I come here sooner? I wonder why I didn’t come right after my father died, or even with my mother sometime.”

“You had your own life, dear. You were a young woman with a big life. Alice always kept track of you.”

Gwen took her glass and sat down beside Eleanor close to the fire.

“What about Mead? What about all this going to him?” Eleanor asked.

“Dear, there’s nothing to worry about.” Gwen was shaking her head but hadn’t yet answered when Mead came in. He went straight to the fireplace and stirred the logs with the poker, then got himself a whisky before he sat down, before he said a word to them or they’d said a word to him.

His hair was longish and unruly, dark brown to the nape of his neck. He had a square jaw, tanned skin, full eyebrows, and a prominent nose. There was nothing delicately handsome about him, but he wore smart navy trousers that draped beautifully and a thick gray wool cardigan. Eleanor took in his clothing, clear down to his shoes, dark suede desert boots, scuffed and tumbled with wear, and just as she was putting together where she’d seen the shoes before, he said,

“How’s the ankle, then?”

She exhaled a laugh. “I hadn’t put two and two together till just now, when I saw your shoes. My mind’s not working very well today, but my ankle’s fine, thank you.” She said to Gwen, “I tripped on some rocks and Mead happened to be out there, and he put something on my ankle, and it’s all better.” She turned to him. “Just as you said it would be.”

She was glad to see a young person, to have someone else her own age in the house with her. She was curious about him, but didn’t ask him any questions. She felt nervous and flustered and looked about the room. Her eyes landed on some boxes stacked high in two corners. “Are those books in the boxes?” she asked Gwen.

“Boxed-up books, yes,” Mead said.

“Are they going somewhere?”

“I’ve been building a library here.” His head tipped in the direction of the courtyard. “Out there.”

“Wow.” Eleanor wrapped her arms around her knees. No one spoke for a while.

“Perhaps you could explain, Mead,” Gwen said.

“Let’s see, about a year ago, I decided to go through the house and check the collections for mold, and silverfish, and book lice, see what shape things were in, and I saw what we needed was a proper library. There are random bookshelves in every room, you see, and Alice has loads of books stored all over the country, so the barn was the most likely place, the biggest building”—Mead took a breath in midspeech and
Eleanor saw he was weary—“and though it took a lot of sealing up to make it right, a new roof and insulation, glass doors for the shelves, it’s coming along.”

Eleanor looked to Gwen, then back to Mead. “Will it be for the public, the library?”

“God, no.” He spoke harshly.

“Ouch,” she said in a playful way.

“I mean that’s not the plan,” he said, his tone chastened. “I suppose anything could happen.”

Eleanor stood and crossed the room to look at the bindings of some of the books that remained on the shelf.

“I’m going up to Alice.” Gwen kissed Mead tenderly on the top of his head. “Did you get a chance to see her today?”

“I’ve just come down. We had some chicken and delicious potatoes.”

“Perfect.” Gwen left them alone.

After a long silence, with Mead drinking whisky and Eleanor looking through the books that were still on the lower shelves, she said, “You’ve a lot of Brontë material.”

“Alice was a Brontë scholar in her early academic life.”

“Huh.” Eleanor pulled out an edition of Brontë poems. “My mother had a copy of
Wuthering Heights
in this trunk I have, and I found it just before I left.” She turned to him and held out her palm. “It’s as big as my hand. Fits right there in the palm. I started reading it again. I know I read it before, when I was younger, but I don’t remember much of it.”

“Did you like it then?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Are you liking it now?”

She shook her head. “I just started it the other night and it was, I don’t know, kind of irritating.”

“Irritating how?”

“Irritating like too many questions.”

She dropped onto the couch. Relenting a little, she said, “The guy who tells the story sounds so pressed and urgent.”

“It’s gothic. He’s creating suspense,” he said in a tone that suggested anyone would know that.

“You’ve read it.”

“I have, many times. What did you like about it before?”

She considered for a moment. “I was a kid. I guess I liked the romance. I don’t remember it that well, but I remember some vivid scenes. Not what the book was about, so much. I remember that my mother was worried when I borrowed it from her. She told me to put it down if it made me uneasy. It made her uneasy. I remember that.” She rocked back and forth. “Do you want to tell me what it’s about?”

“You’re not going to read it?”

“I will. I’m sure I will, but tell me anyway.”

Mead studied Eleanor’s face. “You’re not going to read it. I’ll tell you what I can. Get yourself comfortable.” He started in. “
Wuthering Heights
is a story of love, but also of siblings and rivalry and revenge. The house itself was a wild, dark, and motherless place, the home of the Earnshaw family.”

He paused and she nodded for him to continue.

“Mr. Earnshaw brought home from his travels a dark gypsy boy he named Heathcliff. The older brother, Hindley, resented Heathcliff, but little Catherine adored him from the start. They grew up together, rode horses and ran wild on the moors. Mr. Earnshaw treated Heathcliff as his son, and some think he might have been.

“Hindley’s jealousy—first of their father’s affection, then of Catherine’s, then, too, of Heathcliff’s affinity with the moors—grew vicious once Mr. Earnshaw died. Hindley exiled Heathcliff to the stables and treated him like a servant from that moment on. He was brutal and cruel to Heathcliff, and this drove Catherine and Heathcliff even closer together, till they developed a sense that they were alone together against the world.

“They were wild as the moors are wild, Catherine and Heathcliff. As they grew, their love grew romantic and they shared an unspoken promise to be together forever. One evening, mischievous as ever, they climbed into the garden of the Lintons at Thrushcross Grange. Watching through the window, they made some noise and dogs came running. Catherine was bit and Heathcliff was chased away—”

Eleanor broke in. “Didn’t they die together in the book? I’m embarrassed how little I remember.”

“No, no, not exactly. No, they didn’t.” More thoughtful now. “But you see”—he cleared his throat—“there’s the book that was written, and then there’s the book that’s remembered, and all the movies in between. It’s hard to get at what
people really know about the love story. Which love story they mean.” This last bit he spoke into his drink, his eyes fixed on the bottom of the glass, and then he drank it down. “From all the things that happened to him, Heathcliff was a pretty nasty character in the end.”