“And yet I do have it,” Violet insisted. “I also have a witness—an expert in nineteenth-century manuscripts —who will testify to its authorship.”
Jane thought for a moment. What
“I don’t know how you obtained a copy of the manuscript,” Violet continued. “I suppose there could be several of them in existence. Brontë was known for always having two or three, in case one was destroyed. But you
“There’s been some kind of mistake,” Jane said.
Violet snorted. “A very large one, I would say. What do you think the literary world will say when they find out that not only have you plagiarized your novel, but you’ve prevented the world from knowing that another Charlotte Brontë novel exists?”
“You don’t understand,” Jane said.
“Oh, I do understand,” said Violet. “I understand that unless you stand up tomorrow at your panel and admit to what you’ve done, I will be forced to expose you.”
“What?” Jane said. “I can’t do that. It’s not true.”
“Tomorrow,” said Violet, turning to leave. She looked back at Jane. “If you don’t do it, I will.”
Chapter 26
Charles arrived at the cottage in October, after the first hard frost had brought death to the last of the apples and the few leaves clinging stubbornly to the trees had withered. He came on a bright, cold afternoon, carrying a small suitcase and his favorite ginger tom in a wicker basket. Constance, returning from a walk to the pond to see if the bank ducks had finished building their nest, saw him standing near the front door. But instead of running to him at once she stood very still for a long moment, admiring the way the sunlight dappled his hair.
Jane wished it were darker. Although twilight had descended and rain continued to fall, it was still bright enough for Violet to see Jane if she happened to turn around. But so far she hadn’t so much as paused, walking briskly through the French Quarter in a peculiar zigzagging route that made Jane wonder if the woman knew she was being followed.
Which of course she was. Jane had waited only long enough for the shock and anger cause by Violet’s demand to subside, then had trailed her as she left the hotel. She wasn’t sure why, or what she was going to do, but her instinct told her to keep Violet in her sight. And so she followed, staying a block behind in the event she needed to duck into a doorway to escape being seen.
So far Violet had traversed Chartres Street until reaching Jackson Square, on the far side of which she turned onto St. Ann and headed northwest. Turning again, she headed in an easterly direction down Dauphine, eventually crossing the Esplanade and entering the Faubourg Marigny. She continued past Washington Square, crossed Elysian Fields, turned onto Mandeville, and a block later made a final turn onto Burgundy. Halfway down that block she stopped in front of a small red house on the west side of the street, walked across the porch to its front door, and went inside. Jane stood in the shadows across the street, wishing she had worn sensible shoes. Her feet ached, and she could tell that a blister had already formed on her right big toe.
A light went on in the house Violet had entered, shining through the slatted wood shutters and casting watery yellow stripes across the white-painted floorboards of the porch. Jane could see nothing because of the shutters, and so she quickly crossed the street and ducked into the space between Violet’s house and the next. There was another window there, but it was covered by heavy drapes, preventing Jane from seeing inside. She continued on, hoping to find a more revealing opening.
She found it at the back of the house. The yard was small, and its garden had been allowed to grow wild, so it now resembled a jungle of flowering plants that perfumed the air. There was a smaller version of the front porch outside a simple door that Jane assumed led to the kitchen. A narrow window on one side of the door glowed faintly in the gloom. Jane thought grimly of snakes as she made her way to the porch and peered through the glass.
She’d been right about the kitchen. It was a fairly large one, shabby but clean. The appliances were quite old—almost antique, Jane thought—and the wallpaper had worn away in several spots due to water damage.
To one side of the room was a table, rectangular in shape and painted a kind of celery color. Four chairs were arranged around it, one on each side. Three of the chairs were occupied by seated figures. Seeing them, Jane stepped back, afraid that she would be detected. But when after a full minute had passed with none of them moving, she took a second look.
Two of the figures were female. They were dressed in somber dresses much like the one Violet wore. Their hair too was done up like hers, and their faces were equally pale. The third figure was male. He wore a suit, and his hair was parted neatly on one side. His back was to Jane and so she could not see his face. All three of the figures held their hands neatly in their laps.
A moment later Violet entered the room. “I’m back,” she said. “And I believe our plan has worked.”
None of the others answered her, but Violet didn’t seem to notice. She moved about the kitchen, taking items from the refrigerator and putting them on the table, pouring wine into four glasses and setting one at each place. When she was done she took the final seat, across from the man. She lifted her glass.
“To revenge,” she said. She laughed and took a sip of her wine. She closed her eyes for a moment. “Isn’t it delicious?” she asked.
No reply came from the other three diners, none of whom moved even a finger. Their glasses sat untouched before them. Still seemingly unaffected by their silence, Violet picked up a platter of meat and lifted a piece from it.
“Anne?” she said, looking to her right. “Oh, of course. You prefer the end cut. I’m sorry.” She turned to her left and laid the meat on the plate there. “It’s Emily who prefers it rare.”
“Will you say the blessing?” Violet said, appearing to address the man across from her. She bowed her head. Jane heard no voice come from the man’s mouth, but after a few moments Violet raised her head. “Thank you, Branwell,” she said.
Suddenly it all made sense. Violet wasn’t just a Brontëite; she was obsessed with them. No wonder she wanted to believe that Jane’s manuscript had been written by Charlotte.
Jane had met any number of Brontë fanatics, but Violet took the cake. Not only had she created her own little family, she had somehow managed to unearth Jane’s manuscript and convince herself it was really Charlotte who had penned it. It was actually kind of sad, and Jane felt a little bit bad for the girl.
