Wish You Were Eyre Read online

  Jess leans over to me. “This is so much better than just plain ‘fun facts,’” she whispers, and I nod.

  “It’s here in Haworth that the three most well-known Brontë sisters—Charlotte, Emily, and Anne—and their brother Branwell, grew up, and it’s here that the girls wrote their famous novels.” The scene cuts to a cobblestone street lined with ridiculously picturesque gray stone houses and shops. “We’re standing by the Black Bull pub, where brother Branwell spent far too much of his time, and now we’re going to walk up High Street, which leads to the parsonage at the top of the hill.” Simon’s voice gets a little breathless and the camera motion a little choppier. “It’s steep, as you can see.”

  He comes to a stop by a graveyard.

  “Note the distinctive gravestones.” Tristan is narrating now, and at the sound of his voice I grab my knee to keep it from jiggling. “Flat as tables, they were the perfect place for the village women to spread out their washing to dry, which caused quite a flap in Charlotte’s day. Eventually, Mr. Brontë, her father, who was the minister at the church of St. Michael and All Angels”—the camera pans over to a gray stone church—“put a stop to it. We’ll give you a tour of the church in a bit, but first let’s visit the Brontë home.” The camera scans across the graveyard to a square gray house, plain and imposing looking, that’s set on a rise beyond. “It was here in this parsonage that the Brontë children grew up. A Georgian structure, it’s built of local stone and is today a museum. We’ll go inside shortly, but first we want to show you their back garden—or what you Yanks like to call ‘backyard.’”

  The scene cuts to a broad expanse of grassy moors—near-treeless ground broken up by occasional outcroppings of boulders and lots of stone walls.

  “Wow,” says Winky again. “It’s like the open range back home, but wilder and gloomier, or something.”

  “This is where the Brontë children spent their childhood, running and playing on the moors.” The camera lingers on the rocky landscape, rests beside brooks and waterfalls, then eventually returns to the parsonage. “We’ve been given special permission to film inside today, thanks to Professor Berkeley”—the camera whisks over to Simon and Tristan’s father, who smiles and waves—“who happens to know the curator.”

  The screen goes black, then fades back in to reveal the interior of a large, stone-floored entryway. An imposing-looking staircase winds to the second story, and an arched window on the landing lets in a chilly light.

  Simon is narrating again now. “Some eighty-thousand visitors come through the front door of this parsonage each year, curious to see the house where the Brontës lived and worked. Note the flagstone floors throughout the ground floor.”

  “Brrr,” says my mother.

  “There were no carpets or wallpaper until Charlotte became a successful author,” Simon continues, “and her father had such a fear of fire that he insisted on no curtains on the windows.”

  Our first stop is the dining room, where we’re shown a portrait of Charlotte over the mantel and then a large table. “And this is where the girls would sit, writing their stories after everyone else had gone to bed.”

  I glance over at Emma, who is staring at the TV screen, mesmerized. The Brontës’ dining room is the only one I’ve ever seen that has bookcases in it, the way her family’s does.

  “The kitchen would have been one of the Brontë children’s favorite rooms,” Simon goes on to tell us as the camera leads us down a passageway.

  “Too bad it’s not pink,” Jess whispers to Emma, whose own kitchen is famously painted that shade. “It would be a lot more cheerful.”

  Mrs. Hawthorne frowns and puts her finger to her lips.

  “It was here, seated by the fire, that their housekeeper Tabby would tell them spooky tales and legends of Yorkshire. Charlotte and her sisters did some writing here, too, as well as cooking and baking.”

  Next stop is Mr. Brontë’s study, where Charlotte’s father first read Jane Eyre, and then it’s time to head upstairs. We see one of the toy soldiers that inspired many of the young Brontës’ stories, as well as Charlotte’s writing desk. The camera zooms in for a closer look at some of her clothes, which are displayed in a glass case. There’s a parasol, a bonnet, shoes, a lace-edged shawl, and a dress.

  “Blue-sprigged muslin,” murmurs Megan. “And look at how tiny she was!”

  “It reminds me a little of the Jane Austen museum in Bath,” Emma replies.

  “Shhhh!” says Mrs. Hawthorne frowning again.

  Tristan chimes in once or twice, narrating events in what he calls “the family’s creative but tragic lives,” but for the most part this is Simon’s baby. The video lasts about ten minutes, and everyone applauds enthusiastically when it’s over. Winky and I whistle loudly.

  “Unforgettable,” says Mrs. Delaney. “Boys, you’ve outdone yourselves.”

  “Take a bow,” says Mrs. Wong, and they do.

  “I thought the lads did quite well, didn’t they?” agrees Mrs. Berkeley. She looks pleased at our response, and so do Tristan and Simon.

  “Chips off the old block,” says their father. “Got all the best historical bits in.”

  “I’m going to submit it for credit at school,” Simon tells us. Or tells Megan, because he’s looking directly at her.

  “I’m sure you’ll get an A,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “Or ‘full marks’ as you say over there, right?”

  “I miss England!” Emma sighs. “I wish I was there right now!”

  “Me too,” says her mother.

  Me three, I think silently, my eyes sliding over to Tristan. The corners of his lips quirk up in a smile; he’s definitely looking back at me now.

  “Yorkshire is a far cry from Chawton, isn’t it?” says Mrs. Berkeley.

  Tristan and I lock eyes. Chawton is the last place where the two of us were together—and where we shared a kiss. A very memorable kiss, I think, turning bright red again.

  Jess’s mother nods. “Totally different vibe. Chawton is beautiful, but this is less manicured and, for me, more soul stirring. All those dark clouds brooding over the wild countryside!”

  I know exactly how she feels. It’s the kind of place that makes me want to reach for my camera. The kind of place my dad would have loved.

  “Mom, that’s so poetic,” says Jess.

  “Why thank you, darling.”

  “Do you girls have any questions for the Berkeleys?” asks Mrs. Hawthorne.

  I risk another peek at Tristan. If you were here, would you kiss me again? Is it my imagination, or is his face a little flushed, too? I look away. I really have to stop this—it’s getting ridiculous.

  Across the table, Emma’s hand shoots up.

  “EMMA!” we all shout.

  She grins and shrugs.

  “So how can we help you, ma’am?” asks Simon in his best fake American accent.

  “When we visited Haworth last year, we took a walking tour to Top Withens, the house that Emily Brontë turned into Wuthering Heights for her novel. Did you get a chance to hike there, too?”

  “Alas, we did not,” says Mrs. Berkeley. “We didn’t quite have time to venture that far on this visit. But we’d like to go back; we all really loved the village and the setting. It’s very romantic, isn’t it, boys?”

  They nod. I notice Simon and Megan staring at each other, and Megan’s a little pink, too. It must be catching.

  “I suppose we should let you get going,” says Mrs. Hawthorne finally. “I’m sure you have to be up bright and early to catch the train home.”

  “Well, not so bright and early,” Mrs. Berkeley replies. “The boys don’t go back to school until Tuesday, so we can take our time getting back to Bath.” She looks over at Sophie. “Which reminds me, Annabelle sends her love. She misses you, Sophie! She’d been hoping to see you while she’s in France for the skating competition, but she’s planning to visit with your grandfather at least.”

  Sophie brightens at this. I, on the other hand, do not.
Stinkerbelle is Tristan’s ice dancing partner. She spends far too much time glued to him, in my opinion.

  “This has been great fun, hasn’t it?” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “We’ll have to do it again soon.”

  “Until next time, then!” says Mrs. Berkeley, and we all wave good-bye. I’m tempted to blow Tristan a kiss, but I don’t, of course, because that would be incredibly lame and incredibly embarrassing and I’d never live it down.

  Besides, Megan may be seeing Simon soon in Paris, but my chances of seeing Tristan again, if ever, are pretty much zero. It’s really time to stop thinking about him. I’ve got more important things to think about, like going to the National Championships. I already have a boyfriend, and Tristan and I are just friends, that’s all. Well, okay, friends who shared a kiss. An amazing kiss on an amazing summer evening in an amazing garden in England.

  “Huh?” I say, realizing that Winky is looking at me strangely.

  “I said, pass me your plate,” she repeats.

  “Oh, okay.” Man, I need to snap out of this. Pushing thoughts of a certain ice dancer out of my head, I stand up to help clear the table.

  “Would you take care of Chloe, please?” my mother asks me. “I need to talk to Phoebe for a minute about tomorrow.”

  I turn to see that my little sister is sound asleep in her high chair with her cheek resting on a half-eaten gingerbread muffin.

  “Can I carry her?” Winky begs.

  “Sure,” I reply, passing her Chloe’s limp form.

  “Looks like somebody had a good time this afternoon,” says Mrs. Parker as she and Winky follow me outside to the car. I transfer their luggage from Mrs. Wong’s sedan to the back of our minivan while Winky deposits Chloe in her car seat.

  “Wyoming contingent and Concord moms, rendezvous here at the tea shop tomorrow morning at eight thirty sharp!” calls Mrs. Chadwick, as the pen pals start pairing off and heading for their various cars. I flash the “V for Velcro” sign at Jess and Savannah as they get into the Delaney’s minivan with Madison and her mother. I need to start thinking up a prank.

  Back home, Stanley is waiting to greet Winky and her mother. We all sit in the living room talking for a little while, then Winky asks for a tour of our house.

  “Oh, me too, please,” says her mother. “I’ve seen it so often on TV, it’s a bit surreal to be here in person.”

  My mother laughs. “I can’t promise it’s as clean as it looks on TV, but sure—Cassidy, do you want to do the honors while I put Chloe to bed?”

  Winky and her mother ooh and aah as I take them around, which strikes me as funny, because I think where they live is much cooler than our old Victorian. Not that I don’t think our house is special—it is. But still, it’s just a house, not a dude ranch.

  “You still have the rocking horse!” says Winky, when I show them Chloe’s room.

  “Duh,” I reply. “It’s her favorite thing ever.” The Wyoming book club sent two presents for Chloe’s baby shower: a rocking horse with a real leather saddle, and a quilt for her crib that Summer Williams made. I show them the quilt, too, and then lead them up to the third floor.

  The turret is Winky’s favorite spot, of course. It’s always everybody’s favorite spot.

  “If I had a room like this at our house, I’d never leave,” she says, settling on the window seat with a happy sigh and gazing down out at the yard and street below.

  “I’ll bet you spend a lot of time up here, don’t you?” her mother asks, and I nod.

  “It’s kind of turned into an unofficial book club clubhouse—and jailhouse, too,” I reply with a grin. I tell them about the mix-up with the Secret Santa gifts last Christmas, and how we got sent up here on New Year’s Eve to untangle the big mess of hurt feelings that caused.

  As Mrs. Parker heads back downstairs to unpack and get settled in Courtney’s room, which doubles as our guest room when she’s away at school, I’m tempted for a moment to tell Winky about Zach and Tristan, and how mixed up I feel. In the end, though, I decide not to. We hang out in the turret for a little while, talking about other things, and then we head for my room.

  “I went ahead and set up the air mattress for you, Winky,” my step-father tells her, poking his head in the door. “Hope you’ll be comfortable on it.”

  “Oh sure, we have one just like it at home.”

  Stanley leaves and Winky circles the room slowly, looking at all my trophies and team photos and stuff. I still have my Cammi Granato poster on the wall—she’s my personal hero—but I gave the one of Henrik Lundqvist, the New York Rangers’ goalie, to Courtney as a joke gift when she left for college. I told her she was in here all the time looking at it anyway, so she might as well have it to keep.

  “It’s funny; our rooms are alike in so many ways,” Winky tells me. “I mean, I have all my rodeo trophies and stuff on display, and you have all your hockey stuff.”

  Winky is a two-time rodeo princess for Albany County, Wyoming, which I used to think was a joke until I found out what was involved in winning that title. She’s as much an athlete as I am.

  Since we had tea so late, dinner is just soup and salad. While Mrs. Parker lingers in the kitchen talking to my mother and Stanley, Winky and I go back upstairs to my room, where I try and finish up a little homework.

  “I can’t believe you’re reading that,” she says as I pull The Scarlet Letter out of my backpack. She reaches into her suitcase and holds up an identical copy, and we both laugh.

  “Savannah and Jess are reading it at Colonial Academy, too,” I tell her.

  “What do you think of it?”

  “I hate it.”

  “So do I. How about Jane Eyre?”

  I give her a thumbs up. “Best book we’ve read so far in book club.”

  “Really? I like it a lot, but maybe not that much.”

  “What are you talking about? Jane is awesome!” I protest. “You’ve gotta love her independence.”

  “Oh sure, I like Jane herself well enough. It’s just that whole section with St. John Rivers that makes me want to throw the book across the room.”

  “I haven’t gotten there yet,” I admit. “I’ll let you know if I feel the same way.”

  We’re still debating the book’s finer points when my mother and Mrs. Parker come upstairs to say good night.

  “I never thought I’d walk into this room and interrupt a literary discussion,” says my mother, smiling at us.

  Mrs. Parker picks up my copy of The Scarlet Letter. “Winky’s reading this one, too.”

  “We were just talking about that!”

  “Really?” says my mother. “I had to read it back when I was in high school as well. Can’t say that I liked it that much.”

  “I loathed it,” says Mrs. Parker with a shudder.

  “So if everybody hates it and they have for ages and ages, why do they keep torturing high school students with it?” asks Winky.

  “Good question,” her mother replies. “You can talk about that some more in the morning—please try and get to sleep now. Big day tomorrow.”

  After they leave, we turn out the light obediently. Two seconds later I sit up and switch it on again. “I just figured out my plan,” I announce.

  “What plan?” asks Winky.

  I explain about Sophie and Stewart, and how Jess and Savannah asked me to come up with a prank that will help un-Velcro the French girl from Emma’s boyfriend.

  “So what’s your bright idea?”

  “It’s not mine, it’s Nathaniel Hawthorne’s,” I reply, outlining what I have in mind.

  Winky squeals with delight when I’m done. “Omigosh, that’s brilliant, as your English friends would say! Can I help?”

  I reach over and turn the light off again. “Definitely,” I tell her, and the two of us lie there in the dark brainstorming until we fall asleep.

  Megan

  “I dreamt of Miss Ingram all the night: in a vivid morning dream I saw her closing the gates of Thornfield against me and poin
ting out another road . . .”

  —Jane Eyre

  “I can’t believe you have your own sewing room!” Summer looks around enviously at the shelves stacked with brightly colored fabric and supplies. “This is so cool!”

  I shrug. I guess she’s right, but I’ve had it since sixth grade, so it just feels normal to me.

  “I mean, you remember our house in Laramie, how small it is and everything,” Summer continues. “My mother used to call herself the old woman who lived in a shoe! It’s not so bad now that Andy’s off to college along with Ellie and Tessa, but there are still five of us squeezed in under our roof. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have a room of my own. I’ve always had to share with my sisters, you know? Not that I’m complaining or anything. Or envious.” Embarrassed, her voice trails off.

  Summer talks a lot. I don’t mind, though, and the funny thing is, I used to be envious of her! I used to hate being an only child, and I desperately wanted brothers and sisters. She has half a dozen of them. Getting Coco was an improvement, but then I got saddled with Sophie Fairfax, and she’s not exactly what I had in mind in terms of a bigger family. Especially since Coco is now her fuzzy little shadow.

  “I’m glad your mom is here,” I tell Summer, changing the subject. Summer’s parents are divorced, and Mrs. Williams single-handedly runs a diner in Laramie called the Cup and Saucer. It’s difficult for her to get away from work, and she wasn’t sure until the last minute whether she’d be able to come along to Concord or not.

  Summer nods, her gaze wandering over to the bulletin board above my sewing table. She points to one of the pictures pinned to it, a black-and-white shot Cassidy took about a year ago. “So tell me about this Simon guy.”

  My lips quirk up in a smile, as they always do whenever anyone mentions Simon. “Um, what do you want to know?”

  “You know, what he’s like, that sort of thing.”

  I consider the question. How to describe Simon? “Well, he’s really nice,” I say cautiously.

  “Duh, of course he’s nice,” says Summer, “otherwise you wouldn’t be dating him. But what’s he like?”