a previously undiscovered novel by a previously undiscovered bronte sister

 

WUTHERING SHYTES

by Flibbertigibbert Bronte

(Simon And Shyster Ltd, a subdivision of William Heinieman, the publishers of Go Set A Watchman, Harper Lee's previously undiscovered sequel to To Kill A Mockingbird (so previously undiscovered that the author never knew she'd written it) now claim to have found a previously undiscovered novel by a previously undiscovered Bronte sister called Flibbertigibbert Bronte. Knowing the Brontes as I do, anything is possible. Scholars suggest that the work may have influenced the previously undiscovered Flibbertigibbert Bronte's previously discovered sisters Emily, Charlotte and Anne in their own previously discovered world famous novels Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre and The Other One. Below is an extract.)

Chapter One.

Parson Linton could see the moors, wild and windswept stretching away in all directions.

He squinted into the middle distance, feeling for all the world as though he was looking back through time.

The desolate vista extended for miles uninterrupted save for a few erect trees desolately thrusting into an opaque sky.

That's odd, he  thought. You don't normally see trees doing that in public. And someone should sweep those moors properly.

The wind whipped his angelic golden hair, framing an innocent good natured face illustrative of a childish naivete and more improbably two belly buttons.

This was his first excursion through the realms of his new living.

He had taken up residence at the parsonage only three days ago,

It was high time he met his flock.

The country lane that skirted the moors led him directly to the outlying cottage of Squire Heathsnott Shyte Baines.

He had been warned to be careful of Heathsnott. In particular not to get any on his sleeves.

But Pastor Linton was an amiable, optimistic soul.

So ere long, he had presented himself at the door of the cottage which was nondescript enough but still quite atmospheric in an eerie olde worlde kinde of waye.

Just imagine a cottage for yourselves. I couldn't be bothered.

He rapped on the door.

No answer.

He peeped inside.

A sensational sensual sexual sibilantly langurous girl lay stretched on a couch, She was combing her splendid dark tresses as Pastor Linton entered. Her gown was a blue musliny velvet number from Dolce and Goridem.

In spite of himself Pastor Linton gasped.

The girl looked up with a wicked smile.

Pastor Linton's knees weakened.

He felt a maelstrom of disparate phrases go through his mind.

The odour of the musk rose.

The sickness of the pearl.

Phwoaarrrrrrrr.

"I am the new..." he began.

The girl stopped him with a wave of her tresses.

"I know who you are, why you came and what you want."

She's doing lines from Live And Let Die a full 150 years before it gets made; she must be a witch, thought Linton wildly.

"If you know all that," he finally managed with a weak laugh, "what am I thinking now? Ha, ha."

The magnificent specimen of a girl blushed prettily and said a few words.

It was Linton's turn to blush.

The girls eyes shot forth lambent green fire which lit a candlestick on the mantlepiece.

Linton sank into a chair.

"You will stay for t," said the girl, ringing a little bell while her tresses fell adorably across her cheek.

Linton wondered feverishly what t stood for.

A servant whom I'm not going to bother describing, entered.

I mean I'll describe the fact that he entered but not his haggard brow or stooped shoulders, or darting rats eyes, or lank shoulder length hair, or semi permanent leer or wheedling oy know moy roights voice or his air of having a lot on his plate that they don't prepare you for at servant school.

"Yes Mistress Cecilia."

"T for Pastor Linton."

The servant left.

The girl returned to her interminable gleaming tresses which looked set to ensnare the young man for life.

"I have come..." essayed Linton.

"That was quick," shot back Cecilia.

She is an enchantress, he thought.

He tried again.

"Might I..."

"Please."

He despaired of ever finishing a sentence.

All the time this exquisite tress stroking creature all but undressed all of him with all her eyes.

Conversation lagged but Linton was surprised to find he didn't mind.

The girl stirred langurously, only occasionally varying the languor with a sharp jerk, or by screaming mysteriously a la Meg Ryan, or by rearranging a gleaming tress or two, still smiling all the while in that strangely sensual way, and breathing a bit when the mood took her. She didn't seem to want to talk.

For long moments nothing happened except for when she breathed, Linton noticed her bosoms pulling in different directions under the soft blue velvet of her dress.

If she sensually moistens her lips again I'm going to die, he thought.

There had been a silence for about forty minutes, and still no sign of the servant coming back with whatever it was, when the outer door crashed open and a tall, dangerous looking, oddly dashing yet definitively yobbish gentleman precipitated himself into the room.

The intruder could not have known it as he shambled magnificently into public consciousness expectorating wildly and uttering "bahs" all around him, but his apparition at that moment would one day be recognised as the first appearance of the bollox as hero in chick lit.

Pastor Linton already had an early premonition that that's what he was.

The wild uncouth newcomer had the appearance and raiment of a young Orson Welles at the height of his powers or a middle aged Laurence Olivier on an off night.

Seeing the company he exclaimed another indeterminate "bah" possibly by way of greeting and crashed into an armchair by the fire.

Pastor Linton stood up eagerly.

"I'm Pastor Richard Linton," he babbled. "You must be Squire Heathsnott Baines if I'm not mistaken. I wished to make your acquaintance and took the liberty of calling. This young lady has kept me entertained while we waited."

Heathsnott turned a mocking gaze towards the girl then looked back quickly at Linton.

"This is Cecilia Westmacott," he sneered. "She is my ward. Daughter of a friend of mine who died in the peninsular war."

"After you shot him," murmured the girl distantly, plucking a tress.

There was an awkward moment even by the established standards of this place.

"Ah bloody war, tut tut," said Linton finally. "All in the past now. Delighted to meet you sir. Delighted."

He turned once more for another gander at the girl whose mocking smile had deepened into some sort of sensual sibilantly sexual place, way beyond mockery, a sort of lewd suggestive Mona Lisa you might say or a sex maniac on day release. Linton steadied himself and smiled broadly back at her, essaying nothing but bright and kindly forebearance.

I don't know what she's grinning so much about, he thought, it gets dashed unsettling after the first forty minutes or so.

The room fell silent.

Another forty minutes passed without further conversation.

Cecilia in her rampant sensuality was more demure now that the Squire had returned. She lit very few candles with her eyes and only barely singed the cat once in passing, more by accident than anything else. There was much less sensual, sexual, sibilant stirring on the couch stuff going on but still enough discrete messing about with those magnificent raven tresses for Linton to consider changing his name to Woof.

Presently the servant returned with the tea.

"Oh, tea," said Linton with sudden realisation.

"This is my servant, Master Bates," boomed Heathsnott. "Master Bates this is Pastor Richard Linton. Bah!"

"Oh come on," said Linton, "no really. Ha, ha. That's too much. Master Bates. Masturbates. Oh heavens. Not really. It's too much. You're joking, aren't you. Ho, ho, ho. Aren't you?"

"I do not see the reason for your amusement," invoked Heathsnott from beneath bushy eyebrows.

"Sorry," said Linton. "I don't know what came over me. It must be all this barely repressed brooding, sensual, sexual, sibilant energy flying about the place. It gives me the willies. Forgive me."

Heathsnott snorted and with a deft motion and another "bah," hurled the tea things into the fire place.

Cecilia whimpered but not without pleasure.

"Ridies," roared Heathsnott suddenly as the crockery settled.

There was an (awkward) silence.

Heathsnott directed his attention to Linton.

"You'd better go. I and Miss Westmacott are going horseback riding."

Linton could not help noticing that the incomparable raven tressed witch on the couch did not trouble herself to keep the disappointment from her face.

Perhaps she was disappointed that he was leaving.

He dared hope.

Nor did she seem to cheer up overmuch in the courtyard outside when it became clear that this cottage had a courtyard and that she and Heathsnott would be undertaking their ride across country while naked.

"Clothes off everyone," roared Heatsnott and then, "no, not you, you idiot," he added as Linton found himself complying.

Masturbates brought the horses.

"Get thee hence man of God," growled Heathsnott when he and his ward were astride their prancing black stallions. "This is no place for thee. There is nowt for thy sort here."

The two of them astride the blackest steeds looked like nothing so much as a god and goddess, primordial pagan deities as it were, doing pagany things on pagan steeds in some pagan depiction by a pagan artist with a talent for depicting heaving bosoms whether pagan or not.

"Pon my ward," exclaimed Linton in spite of himself.

He was thinking, it would make quite an appealing picture if you got rid of Heathsnott and the horses.

"Art thou tarrying still?" sneered Heathsnott. "Thou art verily a whey faced goon. Scat. Bah."

Linton could handle a few atmospheric archaisms, the ritual thees and thous of literature, and an odd bah in sheep scenes, but too much together left him floundering.

He gibbered insensibly a few sounds meant to indicate goodbye.

Heathsnott snorted as did the horse.

The girl tidied her glittering raven tresses and did not so much as glance at him.

I am lost, thought Linton, she has me now.

Back at the parsonage he spent a night tossing and turning in fevered sleep.

He was indeed a prisoner of her sinuous sensual sexual sibilant form. Her eyes. Her smile. Her shining silken clad thighs. The oddly truncated way she ordered tea. Her imperious interruptions of his sentences. Her tresses, ah, those magnificent silk tresses.

She had nice hair too.