Read Online Daphne by Justine Picardie - Free Book Online Page B

fragmentary and muddled in places.
    Yet there was much that was intriguing within it, in particular Branwell's hero, his Angrian alter ego, Alexander Percy, the Earl of Northangerland, who embarked on an illicit love affair with a married woman, Maria Thurston of Dark-wall Hall. And surely Darkwall had something of Wuthering Heights about it? For a moment, Daphne's heart leapt, wondering if this story could perhaps have been an early outline of the later novel, and Maria and Percy the forerunners of Cathy and Heathcliff? Branwell told Leyland that he was working on his novel in September 1845, when Emily might have already been working on Wuthering Heights, for as far as Daphne could tell, Emily's book was finished the following summer. But could her ideas have overlapped or mingled with those of her brother? Branwell's plot was uncertain - almost non-existent at times - and his story seemed to have no linear narrative, no rational beginning or middle or end; nothing was resolved within it, but instead left scattered and random, yet even so, Daphne could not read it without being reminded again of Wuthering Heights, with Heathcliff clearly prefigured by Branwell's Northangerland. And as Daphne neared the end of 'And The Weary Are At Rest', she also found herself comparing it with Branwell's story of his affair with Mrs Robinson; for all of these tales seemed tangled together, in a sprawling, imaginative legend that was a continuation of Northanger-land's role in the childhood landscape of Angria.
    It was twilight by the time Daphne finished reading the books, the rooks no longer circling above the trees, dusk mingling with the shadowy woods, and her exhilarating delight of the morning had dissipated with the setting sun, fading with the copper and crimson pathway that trembled and then vanished across the sea. Branwell's life was too gloomy for unadulterated celebration, too frustrated, and frustrating, and it heightened the familiar sense of foreboding that often descended upon Daphne as night fell in Menabilly, though she told herself that she embraced the darkness, that it was as fruitful as the light. But even so, she had a strange sense of being wedded to Branwell: they were in this together, in the shadowlands, for better, for worse. She vowed, in some unspoken way, that she would try to do her best by him - to show that he had a hand in Wuthering Heights - and perhaps reveal that he was more sinned against than sinning, for there was the intriguing matter of the forged signatures on Branwell's manuscripts that she should pursue. But she knew, also, that she must see him clearly; that this was the only way forward, for she must tell the truth, or hope that it would find a way of being told.
    Daphne rose from her desk and left the hut, feeling stiff, walking slowly across the garden to the house, knowing that she should begin to make arrangements to return to London, to visit Tommy at the nursing home, and then bring him home to convalesce, at last, as soon as the doctors said he was fit to travel. There were bats flying above her head, and an owl that swooped, white-winged, towards the trees, but the moon was obscured by the clouds, and she could not see the stars, they all remained hidden.
    Rebecca was quiet, also, as she had been throughout the day, pushed aside by Branwell; but Daphne sensed her, resentful and ignored, in the darkness at the edge of the woods, a vague outline against the rustling leaves and the pale, beseeching branches of the beech trees. 'Don't sulk,' said Daphne, quietly. Rebecca would have to wait, and so would Branwell, put aside for a little while; though what would they make of each other, should their paths ever cross, in the forested estates of Menabilly? Daphne laughed, and then felt, suddenly, a flash of elation. There need be no more evasion or invention. Tommy must be persuaded to understand the truth about their marriage, about its past, as well as its present tribulations. And from