- RACHEL

 

One week earlier

 

THE SOUND OF A VIOLIN quartet drifted up to me from downstairs, mingling with the laughter and conversation of a party in full swing. I was in no rush to go join the fun. I'd spent the last hour on the phone with Sarah, the one friend who was happy about my vacation. We weren't talking about that tonight though. She'd broken up with her boyfriend a week earlier and was still struggling to come to terms with it.

I was doing my best to make her feel better but I was out of my depth. I'd never had a boyfriend, not a real one anyway. "You should go and enjoy yourself," she said. "You don't want to hear about my problems."

"If it means not having to talk to Ian, it's worth it," I replied.

She managed a laugh. "Two hours on the phone listening to me cry and you pretend it's for your benefit. That's why I love you."

"I thought you loved me for my amazing sense of style."

"I love your cardigans, you know that. Will Ian though?"

"I don't care. I'm not marrying him."

"They're really trying to hook you up aren't they?"

"Afraid so." I glanced at the door, half expecting to see him appear there, bored of waiting downstairs for me.

"Don't they know you're not interested?"

"I don't think they care. They'll do anything to stop me going on this vacation."

"Just sneak out the house, that's what I'd do."

"I can't do that. They'd file a missing person report before I reached the end of the street."

She laughed again. "I'm just sorry I'm not there to see you off."

"No apologies. You need to take care of yourself. I'll see you when I get back anyway."

"I better go, Rachel. Enjoy the vacation."

"If I survive the party first."

The party that my parents had paid for, hoping to guilt trip me into staying here and marrying their choice for me. I wasn’t going to marry Ian. It was as simple as that. The ticket was booked and they knew I wanted to go, they just chose to ignore the fact and organised the party anyway. They were terrified something would happen to me while I was abroad.

It was a trust thing. They didn't trust me to stay safe on my own for the first time. That and their seemingly urgent need to get me married. "Ian wants to meet you. Maybe we should hold a party?"

“See it as a going away thing,” Dad said when they revealed what they had planned for that evening. “Everyone gets to say goodbye to you."

Mom nodded alongside him. "We spent a lot of money on this. We just want to say goodbye in the right way. Ian's going to be there too.”

“So it’s not just a blatant attempt to get me in a room with Ian?”

“Not at all.”

I knew exactly what they wanted to do. They hadn’t exactly been subtle about it. The catering being carried in through the day, the quartet setting up, the decorations all on credit cards that were maxed out, all to impress him, not me. I overheard them talking about it an hour before Rachel rang. “It’ll be worth it,” Mom said. “First impressions matter.”

“It better be worth it,” Dad replied. “This is wiping us out.”

“Look at it this way. If he thinks we’re as rich as him, he won’t think we’re only doing this to get our hands on his money. I hate being poor."

 “Not for long. We just have to survive until she says I do and then we’re back where we belong, at the top.”

The conversation abruptly died when I walked into the kitchen. Neither of them looked guilty. They both just smiled at me. They saw me as their meal ticket out of debt. It wasn’t a nice feeling knowing I was going to let them down. I had no interest in getting married.

In the time between then and the party they kept hinting at what a good catch Ian was.

“You’ll really like him.”

“He went to Cambridge you know?”

“A vacation home in Switzerland and another in Fiji.”

“He’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

The one thing they neglected to mention was his personality. They thought my marriage could be like theirs, arranged and organised by the parents, endured by the bride. All I needed to do was say yes and they’d do the rest. Easy.

The only problem was I didn’t want to get married, especially not to Ian. I wanted a Heathcliff, a Rochester, a Darcy. All my previous boyfriends were printed in ink and easily foldable. They also fitted conveniently on my bookshelf, they didn’t fight over me, and I knew each of them intimately. I had been dominated by them all in my dreams, draped over a lap, kneeling on a cold floor, tied to a bed and unable to stop them doing whatever they wanted to me.

In dreams I was a lot braver than in real life. In real life, I'd yet to even kiss a boy. I was not starting with Ian. He was more of a Mr. Collins than a match made in literary heaven. Obsessed with his wealth and already telling people he was going to make me his wife. By that, I knew he meant a trophy to show off at his squash club. Not that he ever played. He was as wet as a blanket left out in the rain. Dripping money in lieu of a personality wasn’t enough for me. I wanted a brooding hero with ominous secrets to sweep me off my feet and onto my knees if it's possible to do both at once.

The party was in full swing downstairs while I sat in my room, trying to build up the courage to go and reject him once and for all. My parents were downstairs waiting. Everyone was there enjoying the food and holding out for the guest of honour. They were all enjoying themselves waiting for the announcement. I was the only one in the house who was unhappy. Why couldn’t they have just let me live my own life?

I knew the answer. Money. I didn’t care about it but they were obsessed no one found out the trouble we were in.

To the outside, my family probably looked a lot like any other. What people didn’t realise was we'd been treading water for years. There was a mortgage that was crippling Dad and loans that were taken out to pay credit card bills and credit cards taken out to pay back loans. I knew from the age of twelve that such a state of affairs couldn’t last forever, eventually the debts would catch up with us. Mom spending without thinking but no cutting back, that was for “losers,” as they put it.

They had a plan. Me. Marrying me off to someone rich as soon as I was old enough. No thank you. I loved them but I couldn’t do it. If I ever married, which I doubted, it would be for love not money.

Sighing, I stood up. I’d brushed my hair for long enough. It wasn’t going to get any straighter. There was only so long I could hide from this thing. Like a sticking plaster, better to tear it off quickly, get it over with. Then I could get ready for my flight to Britain.

I opened my bedroom door, crossing to the stairs, dragging my feet. With each step, my heart beat a little faster. I had to be cruel to be kind but I was worried about how they’d react in front of everyone. What if they tried to force me to say yes? Were there any laws to stop them? Could they make me marry against my will? What if he proposed right there and then? How could I say no with all that pressure on me?

For some people it would be easy, but I’d spent my entire life pleasing my mother and this vacation was the first thing I’d ever done for myself. It wasn’t easy to know I was about to upset her.

The party filled the whole of the ground floor. People had spilled out of the dining room (table removed to make a dancefloor) and into the hallway. The back door was open, letting revellers wander out into the garden and letting the warm summer breeze waft in. I wanted to be outside too, preferably somewhere quiet, like Manderley’s grounds maybe, telling Rebecca that just because her man had a million in his name didn’t automatically make him a good catch.

I said my hello's but I didn't get far before Mom caught me.

“Rachel,” she said from her guard post near the living room door. “Come on, there’s someone you have to meet.”

She grabbed my arm, practically dragging me off my feet as she maneuvred me through the crowd.

As we walked into the living room a man was haranguing onlookers about the poor quality of the sofa. "I can see what the manufacturer was trying to do," he said, sneering down at it. "It mimics the more quality pieces that are out there."

That was Ian. He still looked about twelve although he was balder than last time I saw him. He wore a dark brown suit the colour of mud, the most colourful thing about him. "If it's all you can afford, it'll do but look at it. The quality of the stitching belies their inconsistent approach to their work. Shoddy in so many ways."

Mom coughed loudly and he turned, noticing me for the first time. With a sickly smile on his face, he held a hand out towards me, the fingers sagging as if he couldn’t hold up their weight. “Rachel,” he said, his voice sounding as if it hadn’t broken yet. “I was just admiring your beautiful sofa. Delighted to meet you again. I’ve heard so much about you from your mother. I was hoping we might have a discussion about flowers. Are you a fan of lilies? Only my mother is allergic, so I say we have lots of them on the day.” He sniggered loudly at his own joke.

“Nice to see you again,” I said, his hand catching mine after several attempts by me to avoid it. His fingers felt greasy and cold, like shaking with a waxwork figurine. “Mom, can I have a word?”

“Don’t you want to talk to Ian? Get to know each other properly? Tell him about some of those books you're writing. You could give them out as wedding favours if you ever get one finished.”

“Mom.” I ignored her fixed grin and walked back into the hall, not looking back.

“Won’t be a minute, Ian.” She scurried after me as I found a quiet corner near the back door. “What on earth is the matter, Rachel? Don’t you want to help me and your father?”

“How is this helping? I don't want to marry him.”

She sighed, lowering her voice to a whisper. “We’re broke, Rachel. If you don’t marry Ian, what are we supposed to do? Spend a couple of days with him, see what happens.”

“Mom, I’m getting on a plane tomorrow morning.”

“I know, for the biggest waste of money I’ve ever heard of in my life. We can’t afford it and you know that.”

“It’s my money. I’ve saved for months to buy the tickets.”

“For what? To tour English literary sites? Why not stay here and let him fly you out there when you’re married?”

“Does Ian even like books? He never used to.”

“Well, no, but with that kind of money, does it matter what he likes?”

“I’m not going to marry him,” I said, my voice loud enough to make people look at us both.

Mom laughed it off before pulling me out into the garden. “Are you deliberately trying to embarrass us? It cost a lot of money to put this party on and it’s all for your benefit.”

“No it’s not for my benefit,” I replied, my voice getting louder. “Nothing has ever been for my benefit. You made me learn the flute and I did it despite hating the thing. You wanted me in Barkham’s school. I went, saying goodbye to all the friends I’d made here. You wanted me to drop playing chess because it wasn’t becoming, I did it. I’ve done everything you wanted but I’ve had enough. This party is to make you look good and to guilt trip me into saying yes.” I paused to take a breath. “This is one thing I’m doing for me and you’re not going to make me change my mind. I won’t marry a man I feel nothing for, it doesn’t work like that.”

She burst into tears. “Why are you doing this to me, Rachel?”

I felt the ever present tug of guilt but I ignored it. I couldn’t back down. Give her an inch here and I’d be down the aisle before I knew it. “I’m not doing anything to you. I will never love that man.”

“How do you know? You’ve barely met him.”

“Did you see him?”

“That’s not fair. You could give him a chance.”

“You should know straight away. There has to be a spark, a look, a feeling, something.”

“I didn’t feel anything when I first met your father. Feelings grow, Rachel. Can’t you give him a chance? He’s worth a fortune.”

“Love isn’t about money.”

“No,” she replied, wiping her eyes, her mouth narrowing. She’d forgotten she was meant to be crying. “It’s about you permanently having your head buried in a book dreaming about men who don’t exist. You know they’re not real, don’t you? There’s no hero in a cloak going to sweep you into his arms and carry you off on horseback. This is the real world. We have debts and marrying rich is a hell of a lot more real than marrying for love. I’ve been on this earth thirty-nine years and I’ve never seen anyone marry for love.”

I felt sorry for her. Either she was lying to try and convince me to do it or it was true. I wasn’t sure which was worse. “I am going on this trip,” I said slowly, trying not to let my emotions boil over. “I am going to enjoy myself and I am not going to be talked out of it by your attempts to make me marry a man I don’t love.”

“You need to grow up, stop living in books. All those heroes you love are just brutes and you know it, if you met someone like that in real life, you’d be terrified. He’s twenty-one, rich, and he’s willing to marry you. What more do you want?”

“I’m going upstairs to finish packing.”

“Please, Rachel. What am I supposed to tell him?”

“Tell him I’m not going to marry anyone. I’m going to be a frigid spinster with twenty cats all living in a house crammed with more books than a dozen libraries.”

I thought she might smile but instead she started crying again. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. Do you want to die a virgin, is that it?”

“Mom! I don’t want to marry a man I don’t love. It's that simple.”

“Well, you’ve spoiled the party, Rachel. You’ve also ruined my life. I hope you’re happy.”

I watched her storm back into the house leaving me alone in the garden. I walked down to the far end, squeezing through the bushes to my secret reading chair which was sheltered under the boughs of the old oak tree. I sank into the chair and put my head in my hands, feeling guilt wash over me. I didn’t like seeing her upset and I had a horrible feeling she wasn’t done with me yet.

I wanted to make her feel better. Whenever she’d cried in the past, I’d become so guilty I’d given in but this time I couldn’t do it. No wonder she was upset, I’d never stood up to her like this before. Anything else and I’d have backed down but marriage was for life. It had to be with someone you loved, not just someone with a private bank account.

I sat there for a long time, watching the sun slowly setting, trying to reassure myself I was doing the right thing. I heard them shouting at me at one point but I stayed hidden. I only had to get through tonight and then I was off to the airport. Two weeks in Britain, ticking one place after another from my bucket list. The places I’d dreamed about since I was little, I would get to see them all. The Parsonage at Haworth. Chatsworth, Dove Cottage, Castle Howard.

I had a huge list organised and a tour sorted. After I landed, I had a tour guide booked who was going to take me around the country. That was my one concession to my parents, a tour guide would keep me safe according to them. The first site was just me on my own though. A pilgrimage to a parsonage.

I sneaked back up to the house when the sun started to set. It was busy enough for me to get upstairs without anyone noticing. Once I was in my room I locked the door and opened my suitcase. Time to triple check what I’d packed.

They didn’t disturb me. They might not even have realised I was back. That suited me perfectly. I had no intention of having another argument but I wasn’t backing down either. I was going. I was not getting married. Dad might fall for her tears but I was getting too old for them and she used them too often when she didn’t get her own way. I felt stronger than ever, I had stood up to her at last.

Didn’t stop me feeling bad though. I struggled to get to sleep. I had a horrible feeling this wasn’t over. They’d given in too easily.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of the cab outside honking its horn. I shot up. Mom had said she’d wake me and of course she hadn’t, her first shot at passive aggressive revenge.

I slammed my case shut and dressed as quickly as humanly possible. I was out of the door five minutes later, wishing I’d had time to clean my teeth. At least leaving at top speed meant no last minute pleading from my parents to change my mind. “See you soon,” I muttered to myself as I climbed into the cab, looking back at the house as we drove away.

By the time I landed at Manchester airport I had put everyone in the States out of my mind. I was too busy thinking about all the places I was going to see. Ten hours in the air had given me a lot of time to get excited. I’d been planning this trip since I was ten, saving for it since I was eleven in nickels and dimes, properly putting the money towards it for the last six months.

Now it was finally happening. It was hard to believe. Even while we were flying I had visions of the pilot announcing, “Sorry for the inconvenience but Rachel Murphy’s mother has just called and we need to return to JFK for her to apologise and agree to marry Ian and stop acting like a child. If you are affected by this, please direct your complaints to her in person in row H.”

Luckily, that didn’t happen but it wasn’t until we began to descend that I relaxed about not being turned around.

The time difference meant it was coming up to midnight when I landed. I was finally here and excited as I was, no one else in the airport seemed to care, looking at my beaming grin with frowns and the occasional scowl.

I had a ticket for the last train from Manchester to Keighley in West Yorkshire. The train took an hour and a half and the only people outside when I stepped off in Keighley were taxi drivers. I called one over and then it was only a couple of minutes to get to Haworth and the guest house on Main Street that was waiting for me.

I had warned the owner it would be late when I arrived and she’d done as she said, leaving a key under the plant pot by the front door. I let myself in as quietly as I could. The email had said straight upstairs and first room on the left. Another minute and I was unpacking on my bed, suddenly feeling exhausted.

I couldn’t sleep yet though. I knew the parsonage wouldn’t be open at this time but I had to see it. I’d come all this way, I couldn’t just go to bed without a quick look.

I walked back out after I’d washed, walking up the steep cobbles to the top of the street, making good use of the mental journey I’d made so many times in the past. I was walking in the footsteps of the Brontës at last. It felt magical, like they were beside me as I walked, just out of sight but ready to talk to me if only I could see them.

I turned left at the church where Patrick Brontë had been priest, feeling my excitement growing. The parsonage came into view. There it was. That was where they’d lived, loved, written their wonderful stories. To my right was the schoolroom where Charlotte had married. Over the wall to my left I could see lights on in every window of the house. Did they leave them on at night? As I got closer, I could hear voices inside laughing and talking.

The gate to the front door was open but as I went to walk through it a huge man in a black tuxedo stepped out from the shadows, his hand held out in front of me. “Invitation?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Private party. Invitation only.”

“But it’s two in the morning. What kind of party is it?”

“Private.”

“What kind of party takes place this late at night?”

“One you’re clearly not invited to.”

Three people brushed past me on their way in, a man in a suit, the women on his arms in beautiful dresses, all three of them wearing masquerade masks.

“Mr. Osborne,” the guard nodded, stepping aside to let them through before blocking my way again.

I turned away feeling crushed and confused. Walking further up the street, I tried to look in the side windows, jumping up but unable to get high enough. Even if I could have managed it, the curtains were closed. I could hear the sound of a whip cracking followed by a scream. What on earth was happening in there?

I found myself around the back of the house, looking in the window of the visitor centre and shop. There was a door next to a display of merchandise. By the door were three cardboard boxes, each one labelled Lafite. I looked in through the window at the display of Brontë related trinkets. As I did so the door next to me opened and a woman in a black and white waitress uniform stepped out, pulling a cigarette from her breast pocket. “Want one?” she asked, seeing me staring at her.

“No thanks,” I replied. “How is it in there?”

She shrugged. “Understaffed like last time. For a man as rich as him, you’d think he’d spend a couple of quid on hiring enough waiting staff. All that money on expensive toys but not enough on people like me. I guess if you aren't showing your ass in there, you don't matter. This is my first chance for a ciggy and I’ve been here since nine.”

The door opened again and an older woman leaned out. “You’re not supposed to be gossiping, you’re supposed to be bringing in those bottles. Mr. Osborne is here and he’s waiting.”

“All right,” the waitress snapped as the door closed again. She threw the cigarette away before leaning down and picking up the top box. “Would you believe we had these delivered and they couldn’t be bothered to bring them inside? Just left them dumped here for me to do the shifting as always.”

“Need a hand?” I asked, picking up the second box.

“Go on then, just don’t tell her Majesty in there.”

With the box in my arms and the door held open for me, I thought to myself, what are you doing? Then I walked through the door, letting it swing shut behind me. I was in the parsonage.