I had a real wallow in Haworth, as Cameron so ungallantly phrased it. It was past eight in the evening when we got there (but the sky was as light as afternoon), so the church and the shops were closed, but I insisted on spending an hour in the churchyard, looking for the Bronte graves. (That was a waste of time. When we went into the church the next morning, we discovered the plaque that said the family was buried in a crypt inside the church. There are no graves, per se. So much for a private word with Emily.) Then, as the sun was setting, I hauled Cameron off to the moors, sat on a hill in the white heather, and read my favorite passages from Wuthering Heights:
". . .1 was only going to say that heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out, into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights, where I woke sobbing for joy ."
Cameron was looking somewhat restive, since his knowledge of British literature equals my knowledge of manatee breeding. I ignored the glazed look in his eyes and kept reading. It was so beautiful, to be out on the actual moor on which Emily used to wander, in the gathering twilight . . . no one within miles of us. It could have done with a few trees, but it was still lovely. Miles and miles of dark green hills outlined in stone walls, and nothing of the twentieth century in sight.
In an effort to capture Cameron's flagging attention (which was probably focused on car repair), I began to explain the plot of the novel, and that the passage I was reading explained Catherine's love for Heathcliff. Very romantic, I thought, hoping that he'd come and sit by me. No such luck.
". . .He does not know what being in love is?" "I see no reason that he should not know, as well as you," I returned; "and if you are his choice, he'll be the most unfortunate creature that ever was born! As soon as you become Mrs. Linton, he loses friend, and love, and all! Have you considered how you'll bear the separation, and how he'll bear to be quite deserted in the world? Because, Miss Catherine—" "He quite deserted! We separated!" she exclaimed, with an accent of indignation. "Who is to separate us, pray? They'll meet the fate of Milo ..."
My voice trailed off, and I wouldn't look at Cameron. As many times as I'd read Wuthering Heights, I hadn't seen that. Of course, it wouldn't have registered before. I had been trying not to think about my own Milo and all the awkwardness that had occurred when I came back from the Highland Games, having met Cameron, and ended the "understanding" we'd had for a couple of years.
Milo had taken it well. "I'm a forensic anthropologist," he kept saying. "I don't understand live people." But I knew he was hurt, and the guilt was like a pebble in my shoe. I couldn't quite shake it. I really did feel caught between Linton and Heathcliff—only I wasn't sure which was which.
Cameron must have seen me blush and guessed what word had thrown me, but British reserve does not allow him to discuss such matters. "Very nice book," he observed politely. "Now, which one of the Bronte sisters was it who wrote Pride and Prejudice?"
By the time I stopped laughing, the mood had passed and so had the light, so we went down the hill and followed the path back to the village for dinner at the Black Bull Tavern, where Branwell Bronte drank himself to death—perhaps from a broken heart.
CHAPTER
2
The drive from London to Edinburgh had been a clash of tourism, compounded of Elizabeth's romantic Britain and Cameron's more prosaic stopping points. Oxford University and the Donnington Park car museum; the Brontes' village and Harry Ramsden's famous fish restaurant; the Border Abbeys and the Dewsbury market (cheap tools, tape recorders, and electronics parts). They tolerated each other's obsessions with affectionate good humor, but with very little real interest.
They reached Edinburgh on a rainy Friday evening—in time for tea, a salmon salad prepared by Cameron's mother in honor of the American visitor who might turn out to be someone "significant." Elizabeth smiled prettily and tried not to feel like Wallis Simpson.
Cameron's younger brother Ian had come home from the University of Strathclyde for the weekend, and he spent a good bit of time trying to convince Elizabeth to attend the
Commonwealth Games. The fact that the Queen might be there was an alluring prospect, but in the end Elizabeth decided that even flesh-and-blood royalty could not tempt her into sitting through a "special Olympics for British subjects," as she put it.
"Elizabeth doesn't like anything that hasn't been dead a hundred years," Cameron told his brother.
"Well, that explains her attraction to you." Ian smirked.
During the ensuing pillow fight, Elizabeth helped Margaret Dawson with the washing up.
The next morning was cloudy, but not actually raining—a typical British summer day, Elizabeth had learned. Cameron had promised her a full day's tour of the city, but he explained that he had a few errands to attend to first, and Elizabeth had gamely agreed to accompany him.
"We'll get to the castle, I promise you. I shouldn't be much longer here. What time is your meeting this afternoon?"
"Three o'clock," said Elizabeth, consulting her watch. "I don't suppose we'll have time for the museum as well?"
No reply was forthcoming. By that time the salesman had unearthed another catalogue, and he and Cameron were rooting through it happily, talking about master cylinders and oil seals.
Oil seals. That was what threw her. When Cameron, the marine biologist, had announced that he wanted to consult Halfords about oil seals, before they went sightseeing, she had assumed it had to do with his research, and naturally she had agreed. Halfords, she thought, must be some sort of aquarium or research station on the Firth of Forth, and she looked forward to watching the seals cavorting about in the water, or, failing that, she could at least view the other exhibits while Cameron made his inquiries.
She spent the first few minutes of the drive enjoying the scenery and studying the houses and gardens, so that they were several miles along before she brought up the subject of the trip. "Is this a new research project, then?"
"What?" said Cameron.
"This Halfords trip. Are you studying the effects of North Sea oil drilling on the seals?"
Cameron had found that so amusing that he had repeated it to the clerk, the cashier, and to two other customers in Halfords—which turned out to be an auto-parts store. After his performance on the Ml, she should have known; but somehow she hadn't thought of British men as being car-crazed. Horses, perhaps. That would have fit in with her God-is-an-Englishman view of the species, but somehow an obsession with batteries and spark plugs lacked the aura of romance that she associated with tweeds and spaniels.
She didn't complain, though. She sat down at the catalogue table in the corner and wrote postcards while Cameron blethered on about his car troubles. Perhaps she had romanticized him a bit, she thought. "Built him a soul," as Dorothy Parker had phrased it. But after all, it did seem to fit rather nicely. And even carburetors had a certain charm when they were discussed in a cultured Scottish accent.