Chapter Thirty-Four
OPALINE
Dublin, 1923
Secrets are all very well and good, but having a fake name, a hidden pregnancy, a forgotten manuscript and forbidden feelings were all making for a very complicated and lonely existence. What compounded my isolation was the constant background fear of Lyndon coming to take everything away from me. It felt as though I were only living a half-life, shrouded in subterfuge. Every time I looked at Emily’s manuscript （which was often!） I ruminated over the unfairness of my situation. The most amazing moment in my life and I realised there wasn’t a soul I could share it with. Perhaps I could trust Mr Hanna, but how could I be sure he wouldn’t let it slip to the wrong person?
It was the loneliness I felt at that moment that spurred me to do something rash. I snatched a piece of paper from the drawer and wrote a hurried letter to Sylvia in Paris. I didn’t want to take the usual precaution of sending it through Armand. It felt wonderful and exhilarating to relay my news and I knew she would not tell a soul without my consent. I’m going to be a mother! I wrote before signing off, knowing that this would not be as exciting to her as the Bront? find. I told her to respond immediately, jotting down my phone number. I sealed the envelope and left it on my desk until I found a chance to walk to the postbox. Just knowing the excitement that Sylvia would share in my news gave me the strength to carry on with my day as normal and delay my decision on what action to take.
I had a busy afternoon and found myself tiring easier than usual. A group of students stopped by looking for a publication by a pioneering new writer, Virginia Woolf. When I bent down to find a copy of Night and Day on the lower shelf, I felt faint.
The atmosphere was heavy and humid, yet it wasn’t until I was about to close the shop that fat raindrops began to splash on the footpath outside, turning it from grey to black. I was replacing some books and tidying the shelves when I heard the bell go. I was surprised to see Mr Ravel standing at the door, his overcoat sparkling with raindrops.
‘Mr Ravel, what a lovely surprise!’
It was a lovely surprise, but I couldn’t help wishing it had been Armand. Despite everything, I still hoped he would come and find me; say it was all a big mistake and that he wanted us to be together after all. But here was a very nice man and I was determined to at least pretend that I was moving forward.
We kissed on both cheeks and he asked, rather redundantly, if it was all right that he had stopped by unannounced.
‘Well, of course it’s all right. If people didn’t stop by unannounced I’d have no customers at all,’ I said, ushering him inside.
He took a moment to breathe in the atmosphere of the shop, then turned to me with a meaningful look.
‘Mademoiselle Gray, your shop is like a treasure chest.’
Normally I batted any kind of compliments aside – it didn’t do to court approval. Yet his words meant very much to me at that moment on many different levels. I offered to make some tea and left him to browse the shelves.
As I carried the tray up the stairs from the kitchen, I called out to him.
‘In fact your timing couldn’t be more perfect, Mr Ravel. I’m celebrating some very exciting news.’
I thought perhaps we should be drinking champagne instead of tea and was about to ask his opinion when I realised that the door was wide open, rain pouring in and no trace of Mr Ravel. I put the tray down on my desk and went to look up and down the street, but he was nowhere to be seen. I closed the door and shook my head, mystified. Then I glanced towards the desk and my heartbeat slowed, then speeded up. The letter I had addressed to Sylvia was gone. I searched the floor in case it had fallen, but it was nowhere to be seen. I covered my mouth with my hand, my breath ragged against my fingers. What had I written? The book. The baby.
Who was Mr Ravel? Was no one to be trusted now? Were they all working for my brother?
I had to leave, and I had to do it quickly.
It is strange how seemingly inconsequential conversations suddenly take on the mantle of fate and destiny when cast in a new light. I had been exchanging delightful letters with Mabel Harper, a woman who wrote an amusing column for the newspapers about her and her husband’s life and travels. Her husband just happened to be none other than Lathrop Colgate Harper – a successful rare book dealer and authority on medieval manuscripts. She had suggested on numerous occasions that I travel to New York and visit the infamous Book Row, and now that I had the money to do it, I decided to waste no time.
I rushed out to the travel agency on D’Olier Street and just made it before they closed. I booked my ticket for a crossing from Cobh to New York on the White Star Line two days hence. I would travel to Cork in the morning and stay overnight there, before taking the tender out to the steamship bound for America. My hand shook as I signed the cheque and the man behind the counter asked if I was quite well. I caught sight of my reflection in the window and saw a pale face with a hunted expression. I would not ignore my instincts this time. Lyndon had found me. Perhaps he had been intercepting my letters all along. After all, what use was Armand? He clearly had no loyalty to me. I left the office and headed straight for the bank.
‘What’s happened?’ Matthew asked, dismissing his secretary and leading me into his office. I was so touched by his concern for me and the baby and felt once again that familiar pull towards him. His kindness was a stark contrast to all of the other men in my life. But I could no longer entertain any feelings of weakness hoping to be saved. I had to save myself.
‘I want you to keep something safe for me.’ I reached into my back and removed the sewing box – contents still intact.
‘What is it?’
I wasn’t sure whether he would be better off not knowing, but I couldn’t help myself. I steadied my breath and spoke as slowly as I could.
‘I don’t have much time, but I believe that I have found’—sharp inhale—‘Emily Bront?’s second novel. Well, not a novel, but a manuscript. Well, part of it at any rate.’
I stood there like a bow, waiting for the arrow to land. It did not.
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes, but I thought she only wrote one novel. Wuthering Heights, wasn’t it?’
I sighed. It was always difficult to deal with civilians.
‘Precisely, Matthew. That’s what everyone presumed. But I now believe I have proof that she was writing a second. This could change the literary landscape as we know it!’
He finally began to understand the enormity of the discovery.
‘Good Lord, Opaline, this is fascinating!’
‘It is!’ I agreed, shaking my head vigorously. ‘You’re the first person I’ve been able to tell. But there’s something else …’
‘Why are you giving it to me?’ Matthew asked.
‘I’m going away for a while and it’s too valuable to leave it in the shop.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He gave me a concerned look, reading my expression, no doubt.
‘You are the only person I can trust.’
‘You’re shaking,’ he said, taking my hands in his.
‘It’s just the cold, nothing more.’ I had to leave. Matthew had his own family to protect. I had to protect mine. I slipped my hands out of his and gave him my brightest smile.