The Brontë Plot by Katherine Reay Page B

though I’m guessing not together . . . But, again, all this may be too basic for what you’re thinking.”
    â€œThis trip is for both of us. Nothing is too basic.”
    Lucy worked the keys for the next few moments. “There’s a museum and tour for Sherlock Holmes, and a real 221b Baker Street. Well, not true, it says the museum is located between 237 and 241 Baker Street. But still . . .”
    â€œI don’t know how many walking tours I’ll manage, but you may walk them all if you wish.”
    Lucy’s hands stilled. “I’m sorry. This is your trip.”
    â€œOur trip. And I want to go to Haworth for a few days too.”
    â€œNow you’re just playing with me.”
    Helen laughed. “No, I want to go to Haworth. Charles and I spent some wonderful vacations in the countryside, Bath, the Cotswolds . . . I’ve never been to Haworth and after enjoying Jane Eyre so much, I’d like that. It isn’t too far.”
    Lucy felt her heart leap and then, just as rapidly, it constricted. James’s father was right. Something felt amiss and Lucy needed answers. “Helen?”
    Helen’s eyes found hers and they seemed to sharpen from sky to steel.
    Lucy pressed forward. “I need to know why. I’m sorry to press, but you have James and two granddaughters, a son, and probably lots more family. And James did break up with me. He’s hurt. And this trip . . .”
    â€œIt has to be you, Lucy, for many reasons.” Helen pointed to the pocket watch. “For starters, you’re now the only other person in almost sixty-five years to see that watch, and I can’t yet explain it to anybody else.”
    â€œBut you can to me?”
    â€œYes. And I suppose I should begin . . .”

Chapter 9
    H elen reached for the watch, holding it tightly in her hands. “This watch and the time it signifies have been buried for so long . . . I stole it from a young man I desperately loved.” Helen lifted her shoulders, dropped them again. “I wanted to force his hand and make him chase after me, but he didn’t. Now it’s time to let go. Of all of it.”
    Lucy opened her mouth to ask a question. Then closed it.
    â€œHe wasn’t my husband. This was before I met Charles, and I should say that I dearly loved Charles. That’s not what this is about. I didn’t make a wrong choice.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œIt doesn’t feel that clear . . . I can’t say I was so sure myself until I met you.” Helen’s gaze trailed across the paintings. “I’m not doing this well.” Lucy watched her thread the chain through her fingers as the seconds ticked by. She finally turned back to Lucy with a blue steel focus. “I stole this from Oliver Alling.”
    â€œThat’s . . . That was my grandfather.”
    â€œI met your grandfather the summer after I graduated college right here on Michigan Avenue.”
    â€œHow? He . . . He lived in London. With my grandmother.”
    Helen nodded. “I’m sure that’s true, but I met him in ’51. You said he moved to London in ’57, and met and married your grandmother then.”
    â€œHe did. He went over with some friends, but I know all the stories and . . .” Lucy stopped and glanced down to her computer, now unsure of all her dad had told her. His stories had glided through the years with the glow of a fairy tale. The hint that they were, in fact, untrue made sense. But the truth hurt. She flexed her fingers across her keyboard then slowly shut the laptop. She waited.
    â€œI’m not stealing your history from you, Lucy. I’m sharing a little of my own . . . As I said, I met Oliver the summer after college. I took a job at a small jewelry store down in the five hundred block here. I wanted something different, exciting, and that’s about as adventurous as I got. A few of my more daring friends went to New York, but