formidable lady at their head. She spotted Joseph and Lewis gaping at them. Directing her companions to the wagon, she turned and made straight for the immortals.
“If you are interested in the tour, gentlemen, you must purchase tickets in the gift shop,” she said. She was a small stout lady of the iron-sinewed maiden-aunt variety. “However, I must advise you that appropriate dress is required, which fortunately you may rent for a reasonable sum from the wardrobe mistress.”
“Okay,” said Joseph.
“Oh! Oh! This is one of those total immersion reenactor events,isn’t it?” said Lewis in excitement. “How utterly magical! And I imagine you’re Charlotte Brontë?”
“I am, sir,” said the actress.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Brontë.” Lewis swept her hand to his lips. “I have so enjoyed your novels. May I introduce myself? Mr. Owen Lewis, and this American gentleman is my friend, Mr. Capra.”
“Hi,” said Joseph.
Charlotte Brontë inclined graciously and peered down at the watch pinned to her bosom. “Thank you. Today’s tour includes the authentic locations that inspired my late sister Emily in her depiction of the principal scenes from
Wuthering Heights
. We depart presently; shall we wait for you to join us?”
“How much are the tickets?” Joseph asked.
“Thirty pounds,” said Miss Brontë coolly. “Per person.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Joseph said.
“You may, of course, elect to wait in the parsonage until the costumed tour returns in three hours, when the bargain-rate tour will be given.” Miss Brontë stared him down. “Though I must warn you that the parsonage has, of course, no central heating, a fact that led, indirectly or otherwise, to the early deaths of several of my dear sisters.”
“Joseph, you’ll regret it if we pass up an opportunity like this,” Lewis cajoled. “I know I will.”
“I said I had a credit line, not a money tree.”
“We won’t be a moment,” promised Lewis, and grabbing Joseph by the elbow, he hurried away to the parsonage. Miss Brontë sauntered back to the omnibus, swinging her reticule with an air of triumph.
“That cost a goddam fortune,” growled Joseph five minutes later, as they emerged from the parsonage decked in Inverness cloaks and rather poorly made felt top hats. “And this is
really
not a guy thing, Lewis.”
“For heaven’s sake, can’t you at least enjoy the irony of it all?” said Lewis.
Besides, if you don’t want the Company to think you’re planning something, this is certainly a good cover. What possible reason could you have for doing something like this other than impulsive, spur-of-the-moment fun?
Joseph just growled again. They hurried to the omnibus, presented their tickets to Miss Brontë, and took their seats.
Three hours later they returned to the car, pausing to open the boot of the Austin.
“I can’t believe you didn’t enjoy that,” said Lewis, as Joseph carefully loaded in the six jugs of Brontë liqueur he had purchased at the gift shop.
“I guess I’m just not literary,” Joseph said, changing his mind and removing one of the jugs. He carried it around to the front of the car and got in.
“You’ve no appreciation of high romance, that’s your trouble,” Lewis said, climbing in and starting the motor.
Joseph nodded somberly. “Boy meets girl, girl loses boy, everybody dies. I just don’t get it. What those kids needed was some tuberculosis inoculations and a whole lot of Prozac.” He broke the seal on the jug and sampled the liqueur. “Wow. Or this. Want some?”
“Not while I’m driving. Do you want to get us arrested?” Lewis headed back in the direction of the A629.
“At least that would be a guy thing,” Joseph retorted.
They zigzagged back and forth across the Yorkshire Dales, gradually working their way north. They stopped at a Herriot museum and had their photographs taken with a Clydesdale horse; bought
All Creatures Great and Small
tea
“If you are interested in the tour, gentlemen, you must purchase tickets in the gift shop,” she said. She was a small stout lady of the iron-sinewed maiden-aunt variety. “However, I must advise you that appropriate dress is required, which fortunately you may rent for a reasonable sum from the wardrobe mistress.”
“Okay,” said Joseph.
“Oh! Oh! This is one of those total immersion reenactor events,isn’t it?” said Lewis in excitement. “How utterly magical! And I imagine you’re Charlotte Brontë?”
“I am, sir,” said the actress.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Brontë.” Lewis swept her hand to his lips. “I have so enjoyed your novels. May I introduce myself? Mr. Owen Lewis, and this American gentleman is my friend, Mr. Capra.”
“Hi,” said Joseph.
Charlotte Brontë inclined graciously and peered down at the watch pinned to her bosom. “Thank you. Today’s tour includes the authentic locations that inspired my late sister Emily in her depiction of the principal scenes from
Wuthering Heights
. We depart presently; shall we wait for you to join us?”
“How much are the tickets?” Joseph asked.
“Thirty pounds,” said Miss Brontë coolly. “Per person.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Joseph said.
“You may, of course, elect to wait in the parsonage until the costumed tour returns in three hours, when the bargain-rate tour will be given.” Miss Brontë stared him down. “Though I must warn you that the parsonage has, of course, no central heating, a fact that led, indirectly or otherwise, to the early deaths of several of my dear sisters.”
“Joseph, you’ll regret it if we pass up an opportunity like this,” Lewis cajoled. “I know I will.”
“I said I had a credit line, not a money tree.”
“We won’t be a moment,” promised Lewis, and grabbing Joseph by the elbow, he hurried away to the parsonage. Miss Brontë sauntered back to the omnibus, swinging her reticule with an air of triumph.
“That cost a goddam fortune,” growled Joseph five minutes later, as they emerged from the parsonage decked in Inverness cloaks and rather poorly made felt top hats. “And this is
really
not a guy thing, Lewis.”
“For heaven’s sake, can’t you at least enjoy the irony of it all?” said Lewis.
Besides, if you don’t want the Company to think you’re planning something, this is certainly a good cover. What possible reason could you have for doing something like this other than impulsive, spur-of-the-moment fun?
Joseph just growled again. They hurried to the omnibus, presented their tickets to Miss Brontë, and took their seats.
Three hours later they returned to the car, pausing to open the boot of the Austin.
“I can’t believe you didn’t enjoy that,” said Lewis, as Joseph carefully loaded in the six jugs of Brontë liqueur he had purchased at the gift shop.
“I guess I’m just not literary,” Joseph said, changing his mind and removing one of the jugs. He carried it around to the front of the car and got in.
“You’ve no appreciation of high romance, that’s your trouble,” Lewis said, climbing in and starting the motor.
Joseph nodded somberly. “Boy meets girl, girl loses boy, everybody dies. I just don’t get it. What those kids needed was some tuberculosis inoculations and a whole lot of Prozac.” He broke the seal on the jug and sampled the liqueur. “Wow. Or this. Want some?”
“Not while I’m driving. Do you want to get us arrested?” Lewis headed back in the direction of the A629.
“At least that would be a guy thing,” Joseph retorted.
They zigzagged back and forth across the Yorkshire Dales, gradually working their way north. They stopped at a Herriot museum and had their photographs taken with a Clydesdale horse; bought
All Creatures Great and Small
tea
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