I noticed a letter without any address and scanned it rather quickly, as my stomach rumbled, yearning for food. The words caused time itself to stop.
London,
15 February 1848
* * *
Dear Sir,
I am much obliged by your kind note and shall have great pleasure in making arrangements for your next novel. I would not hurry its completion, for I think you are quite right not to let it go before the world until well satisfied with it, for much depends on your new work: if it be an improvement on your first you will have established yourself as a first-rate novelist, but if it falls short the Critics will be too apt to say that you have expended your talent in your first novel. I shall, therefore, have pleasure in accepting it upon the understanding that its completion be at your own time.
Believe me,
My dear Sir
Yrs sincerely
T C Newby
I sat there, blinking at the words in front of me. Your next novel. Here it was, irrefutable proof that Emily, or Ellis Bell, had begun working on a second manuscript. There was no record of the ‘kind note’ she had sent, but there was evidently some hesitation on her part in rushing its publication. Perhaps she was already unwell and felt herself unequal to the task? Or was it more likely that, being a perfectionist, she wished to take more time to complete it? My head buzzed with excitement.
I looked at the entry in the catalogue for further explanation.
* * *
Letter from T.C. Newby found in Emily’s writing desk with an accompanying envelope addressed simply to Acton Bell.
But I knew it couldn’t have been meant for Anne, for her second novel had already been submitted for publication. No, this was a correspondence with Emily regarding her follow-up to Wuthering Heights. I knew it! I sat back in my chair and looked out the long sash windows to the garden. If Charlotte had destroyed Emily’s papers following her death, I would never find the manuscript. My hopes rose and fell with each contradictory argument.
Then I saw something I never would have predicted in a million years. Walking up the drive to the house was a man I was sure I would not see again. Armand Hassan.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I said, standing in the entrance hall and blocking Miss Pritchett’s way.
‘Opaline.’
He simply said my name and it all came flooding back. Paris, his apartment, the touch of his lips on my skin, the scent of his hair wax. It was intoxicating. He looked deeply into my eyes until I broke my gaze. I thought I had put my feelings for him far behind me, but seeing him again, I realised that I had merely hidden them. All of the longing and the hurt were still there, as strong as ever. He took my hand and kissed my wrist, then, still holding it, moved closer and kissed me on each cheek.
Miss Pritchett began to clear her throat behind me.
‘Mr Hassan, is it?’ she asked. ‘I have the books you wished to view set up in the drawing room.’
I stood back and let them discuss their business. I couldn’t help but watch him; he was dressed impeccably, as always, in cream linen trousers and a navy sports jacket. His skin was rich and darker now, thanks to his travels, no doubt. His hair shone like onyx and it was all I could do not to reach out and touch it.
‘I’m here to view some illustrations for a client. However, I am attending an auction in Sotheby’s tomorrow afternoon if that is of interest to you.’
‘Sotheby’s!’ I repeated, failing to keep the excitement from my voice. I couldn’t possibly go. It was too risky to go to London. My smile crumpled.
‘No, I must return to Ireland.’
He looked at me as though he was searching for memories in my eyes. I looked away.
‘You still wear my necklace, I see.’
My hand instinctively went to touch the golden hamsa pendant he had given me on my departure from Paris. A brief smile came to my lips unbidden.
Of course, I should have refused him. But I told myself that I needed news of Paris and Sylvia. That he was one of the few friends I had left, that without his help I would probably be back in London now and trapped in an arranged marriage.
‘Well, maybe it wouldn’t hurt,’ I said.
How wrong I was.
He held open the door of a gleaming black car. If I didn’t know better, I would say that he had come into some money, but it was too vulgar to ask.
‘My client,’ he said, replying to my unspoken question. ‘She is quite generous.’
She. I looked out of the window, concealing the prickle of jealousy that pierced me. It had been several months since our time together in Paris; how could I still feel this way?
‘I am so very glad to see you, Opaline. Many times I have wondered about you.’
And yet he had never sent a letter.
‘Are you still in Dublin?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, quite terse. Where else would I be? Did he expect me to have travelled the world, finding a lover in every port, like him? I sulked for much of the journey and wondered why I had bothered to go at all.
We pulled up on a busy and grimy street full of eighteenth-century houses and shops, with trams trundling past at one end and the buses of High Holborn at the other.
‘I thought we were going to Sotheby’s,’ I said, looking around and pulling my cap down to hide my face. I had decided to dress head to toe in men’s clothing, with my giant overcoat concealing my form.
‘Just a quick stop, I think you’ll enjoy it.’
‘Are you always so enigmatic?’ I asked, as if I wasn’t charmed by it. He knew how to reel people in. Women, more specifically.
We stood in front of a tiny bookshop, with the usual dusty barrows of unsellable stock outside. Next door to a junkshop, it had an old-style window divided into tiny square panes. There I spotted a sign:
THESE ARE THE ONLY DIRTY BOOKS WE HAVE.
PLEASE DO NOT WASTE TIME ASKING FOR OTHERS.
‘What in heaven’s—’
I looked up and saw the name printed above the door: The Progressive Bookshop, 68 Red Lion Street.
‘Shall we?’ Armand held the door open for me.
I wasn’t sure what kind of den of iniquity we were entering, but I had a wonderful sense that we were going to find something out of the ordinary.
A nervous-looking fellow of similar vintage to ourselves was kneeling on the floor with his head halfway inside a cardboard box, quietly muttering expletives as he searched for something within.
‘I understand you are distributing works that breach the British obscenity law,’ Armand said in what was quite a passable London accent.
The man jumped up and propelled his wiry frame towards us with such haste that I took a step backwards （which was quite a feat in itself, as the shop left little room to manoeuvre）。
‘Armand Hassan, you bastard!’ he cried, which caused Armand to smile broadly and then both men hugged like long-lost brothers reunited.
‘I knew it was you,’ he said with a slight German accent, laughing.
‘Herr Lahr, may I present my colleague, Mademoiselle Opaline—’
‘Gray,’ I interrupted. ‘Miss Gray,’ and I proffered my hand.
‘Freut mich,’ he said, which I interpreted as a good thing.
He offered to make us some coffee, but Armand declined, saying that we didn’t have much time before the auction.
‘I have your copy here. Price as agreed – I must cover myself for any legal repercussions, you understand.’