All language subtitles for Possession (2002).eng

They say that women change.

'Tis so,

but you are ever-constant
in your changefulness.

Like that still thread
of falling river,

one from source to last embrace
in the still pool.

Ever-anewed
and ever moving on.

From first to last.
"From first to last,

a myriad water drops.
"a myriad water drops.

"And you--
I love you for it--

are the force that moves
and holds the form."

Now, ladies and gentlemen,

you've just heard
a snippet

from one of only two copies
of this poem

by Mr. Randolph Henry Ash,

poet laureate
to Queen Victoria herself.

And this gorgeous ode
to his nuptial bliss,

written in his own hand,
begins our bidding today.

May we start the bidding
please at £40,000.

- Bit of an old monster.
- Yeah.

But an important monster.
It's Randolph Ash's.

Yes. Who are you
with again?

I'm, uh, Roland Michell.
Who?

- Professor Blackadder's
research assistant.
- Isn't that Dr. Wolfe?

Was. Fergus got the lectureship
at Saint John's... over me.

Of course he did.

Oh, yes, Dr. Wolfe
mentioned you.

You're that American
who's over here.

Well, I'm sure
there are others.

I mean, after all,
you are our favorite colony.

£10,000. Any further
offers on £10,000?

£11,000.

So when do your little
suffragist trinkets
come up for the--

Look, Maud,
it's Mortimer Cropper.

Oh, yes. That's someone
you should know.

- You know him?
- Of him.

Suffered through
a lecture or two.
That sort of thing.
Really.

Mm-hmm.
He's a voracious collector
from what I hear.

Yes. His penchant
for conquests
is well documented.

It's
a very male quality.
Mm.

I know it's vulgar,
but I have to introduce myself.

Oh, all right.

Oh, uh-- Damn.
Let's begin the bidding
please at £4,000.

£4,000. £4,000.
Excuse me. Sorry.

£4,500.
Um, Professor Cropper,
Fergus Wolfe.

Um, we spoke actually
after one of your papers
at, uh, at Trinity.

You wouldn't remember.
I'm sorry, I don't.
Nice coat though.

Oh, thank you.
Uh, James Blackadder.
You're with?

Ah, you're one of
Blackadder's boys
from the British Museum.

Hello.
Hildebrand Ash,

man of leisure.
Oh, hello.

I don't know why Blackadder
comes to these things.

He hasn't got any money.

Well, he's Irish, you see.
He enjoys feeling persecuted.

Dear Madame,

Since our pleasant conversation,
I have thought of little else.

I write with a strong sense
of the necessity

of continuing our talk.

Dear Madame,
I know that you came only
to honor Crabb-Robinson

at his small,
informal party

because he had been
of assistance
to your illustrious father.

Excuse me, sir.

Meal is served.

Thank you.

- Well, hello.
- Hello.

Ah, my tenant.
Your evening sherry.

Thank you.

Candy, this is Roland.
Roland, Candy.

- Hello again.
- Be a love
and check on the duck, eh?

- Okay.
- So, coming in?

So how do you
always know it's me?

I'm a solicitor.
I know everything.

Candy, huh?
Oh, no, no, no,
please.

Candy's just a friend.
Why, are you interested?

I told you
I'm off women.
Yeah, but...

there's no reason
to be off women.

Why do we always
sit in your hall?

'Cause it's
the best room
in the house, really.

I bought this place
for the hallway.

So, I found
something today

I think is pretty incredible
in the London Library.

- A place to sit.
- No.

I found something of Ash's.
You know Randolph Ash?

Ash. Oh, doesn't he have

some sort
of celebration going?

It's the centenary
of his love poems.
Terribly mushy ones.

Found after his death
or something, weren't they?

Is the table laid,
darling?

Listen.
What's it cost an hour?

No, no, Candy's
a friend, I told you.

Not her, you.

What do you charge
an hour, roughly?

Oh, uh, I don't know.
Five hundred.

- Pounds?
- Mm.

- Jesus, no wonder
you have a nice hallway.
- Thank you.

Okay, I wanna buy
seven minutes

of attorney/client privilege
right now.

Step into my office.

Ash wrote those.
They're not the originals.

- Yeah.
- Oh, my God.

How much time we got left?

I've got to think of
a defense for you.

They're practically
love letters.

Rather racy, actually.

See, Ash...

supposedly never even looked
at another woman.

I mean, not even glanced at one
his entire marriage.

Can you imagine
what would happen
if I could prove

that Mr. Perfect Husband
had this, like,

Shakespearean-type
dark lady thing going?

Darling, the duck's done.

Would you be a sweetheart
and do the sauce?

Yes, yes.

- Duck, huh?
- Yeah, Peking.

- It's from around the corner.

Yeah, but that
would be extraordinary.

It would be rewriting
history, old chap.

Yeah, it would be.

Morning.
Morning.

Ro-land.
Professor.

I think
I made a discovery.

It'll turn out to have been
discovered 20 times already.

- I don't think so.
- Surprise me.

Ash's copy of Vico
in the London Library.

It's full of his own notes
on loose bits of paper
all the way through.

- Useful?
- Very.

Better have a look.
See what's what before

Cropper turns up
with his checkbook.
I also found-- Professor.

He made a mockery
over at Sotheby's yesterday.
£1900 for a toothpick.

- Fergus. Where is Fergus?

- He's supposed to be teaching.
- I'll come with you.

No need.
The novice blunders
on the discovery.

The scholar
investigates.

You get on with
those wretched requests
for Ellen's stuff.

I'll go straight from there
to my class.

"Thank you, Roland.
What a wonderful discovery.

They're magically
delicious."

- He's a meany.
- That's a very nice name
for what he is.

Wretched requests, please.

"How many jars
of gooseberry jam

did Ash's wife, Ellen,
make in 1850?"

Hmm. This is not
a job for a grown-up.

Gooseberry.

Cooking.
Gooseberry jam.

Cooking, 142.

What about a small,
informal party?

1859.

My headache
last night prevented me

from accompanying Randolph
to dear Crabb-Robinson's

for a dinner honoring
the poetess Christabel LaMotte.

He was reluctant
to attend without me,

but I was persistent
and finally persuaded him.

Ash, do you know
Professor Spear?

I'm delighted.

Mrs. Jameson.
Mrs. Jameson.

Charmed.

Miss Glover.

Oh, Miss Glover.

- And Miss LaMotte.
- Miss LaMotte.

The highest pleasure.

Randolph reported the party
went off very well indeed.

The discussion of poetry
was animated,

with Miss LaMotte
speaking more forcibly
than anyone expected.

Surprises me, Madame,
that a lady who lives
as quietly as you do

wouldn't be aware
of my modest success.

Oh, I'm very aware
that the papers
herald you weekly.

It is you, however,
who surprise me.

- And why is that?
- Judging from your work,

I'm surprised you'd even
acknowledge my existence,

or any woman's
for that matter,

since you show us such
small regard on the page.

You cut me, Madame.

I'm sorry.

I only meant to scratch.

Hey, Fergus.

Ah, hello, Roland.

What is it you chaps
always say,
"How's it hanging?"

Well, we usually
just say "hey."
Unless you're gay.

Oh.
Listen.

Let me ask you
something.

Do you know
a Dr. Maud Bailey?

Maud! Oh, yes,
I know Maud very well.

She teaches gender studies
at Lincoln.

Oh. Would she
be helpful?

I'm checking out
Christabel LaMotte.

She's a poet, writing
around about 1859.

Yes, yes. Why would you
be interested in her?

Oh, nothing. It's just
I had some requests
about Ellen Ash's papers.

But LaMotte's name
came up, so--

God, the keeper
of Ellen's flame.

I mean, that's the bottom
of the food chain, old sport.

Yeah, but I got to stay on
the food chain, old sport.
That's why I do it.

Right. Well,
"Publish or perish,"
as they say.

Or in your case,
"Perish or perish."

So would she--
this Maud Bailey person?

Oh, yes, but I'd be careful
if I were you.

Why? What's she like?

Well, she thicks
men's blood with cold.

Oh, great.
Or if you prefer
the American vernacular,

she's a regular
ball-breaker.

Mr. Michell?

What? I'm sorry.
Roland Michell.

Yes.

You're Maud.
Bailey. Dr. Bailey, yes.

There's nothing in my index.
No mention of Ash at all.

Well, Ash and LaMotte
definitely met.

Really? When?
June, 1859.

At a dinner party
given by Crabb-Robinson.

It's in his diary.

And you jumped
from that to the idea
that they corresponded.

I found an unfinished draft
of a letter in a book--

Addressed to LaMotte?
No, just "Dear Madame."

But there were three women
at Crabb-Robinson's
dinner party,

and out of the three
it's likeliest to be LaMotte.

So maybe there's something
in LaMotte's letters.

There aren't many from
the Richmond period--

the time you're
interested in.

I'm descended from
Christabel, actually.

I'm her niece,
thrice removed.

Three grades.
That's what "thrice"
usually means.

Oh, maybe
I shouldn't have come.

It does seem
rather pointless.

Well, I suppose
since you're here,

you could have a look
through Blanche's diary.

Who's Blanche?
Blanche Glover.

Christabel's companion.
Her lover.

Oh, you look surprised.

I didn't know she was--
Didn't know
she was a lesbian.

No. I mean,
don't get me wrong,
I like lesbians.

Yes, well, unfortunately,
they didn't have

video cameras in those days,
so you're out of luck.

Now I see why you think
it's so unlikely.

Not from that point of view.

I mean, God, she could
have been bisexual.

There's no evidence she was,
but in theory--

Did you not do any reading
before you came?

Is this like an oral exam?
Yes, I suppose it is.

I mean, you don't know
the first thing about her,

and yet you make
these leaps.

Hey, you're the one
who called her a lesbian,
not me.

Letters, letters, letters.

Not for me.

Letters I am not meant
to know or see.

Thank you, Jane.

- You do not have to
hide them from me.
- I'm not hiding them.

You say they are not hidden,
but they are.

Tucked away...
as if they were
from Cupid himself.

What does he want?

To be my friend.
Friend.

They always try and give
what they want a decent name.

Blanche, no.
No, Blanche, listen.

What we have...
is ours.

No one can change that.

'Tis already changed.

- Find anything?
- Maybe.

So what are
those bookmarks, then?

Blanche writes about letters.

Letters, letters that Christabel
wrote and received.

And it nearly
drove Blanche crazy.

Where are they?

Lost. Destroyed. Who knows?
There's lots we haven't got.

Not one of Blanche's
paintings has ever
turned up, for instance.

So who do you think
wrote the letters?

We've never been able
to verify who he was,

but Ash certainly isn't
one of the candidates.

You've got nothing.

I mean,
it's just a thought.

Of course, I've thrown out
a lot of thoughts today,

and you've pretty much
shot them all down, so--

Yes, well,
it seems like a bit of
a wild-goose chase to me.

I'd like to do
some more reading.

I suppose you'll wish to
stay here overnight, then?

Well, I can't really afford
to stay overnight.

Unless you want me huddled
downstairs in your doorway.

I suppose I could put up
with you for one evening,
couldn't I?

No doubt you know
Fergus Wolfe then.

I'm sorry.
Uh, yeah, we're in
the same department.

I imagine that
he told you that we're

occasionally
on together.

- No, he didn't.
- What did he--

Did he say anything...
about me?

Uh--

No.

Right. I'll use
the bathroom first.
Get out of your way.

Please. I'm just sort of
a brush and flush
kind of guy, so--

Forget I said that.

Maud.

Can I show you something?

Are these--
How did you get--
Those are the originals.

I took them.
I sort of stole them.
Took them?

Where from?
The London Library.

- How could you do that?
- It was on impulse.

Impulse?

Right. I've seen that
take-what-you-want attitude
in other--

What, in other Americans?

God, what is it with
you people and Americans?

Look, I know that
I shouldn't have taken them.
I know that.

But, Maud, I want to
find out what happened.

Did he or didn't he
send the letter?

You might not buy into
my theory, but to me

Blanche's diary suggests
that it's possible.

Wouldn't someone
have unearthed
a thing like this?

- That's what makes it so big.
- Potentially so big.

- Well, no one has.
- Probably because
those were never sent.

Are you doing your homework?

No, I'm just...
writing stuff.

Stuff for me.
It's nothing.

You're a closet poet.
Uh...

more like basement,
really.

I'm just, uh,
just fooling around.

Is that what
you want to be
when you grow up?

No, I'm gonna
be safe and teach
like everybody else.

Besides,
there's no such thing
as poets anymore.

Well... poet,

do you want to see
Christabel's family home
before you go?

Michell's late again.

Roland asked for
another day off, Fergus.

Oh, really?
Where's he gone?

I didn't ask,
and he didn't say.

He's an American,
for God's sake.

He's probably off
trafficking drugs.

Did his new discovery
lead to anything?

Ash's Vico--
are you dreaming?

Vico? No, no,

this had something to do
with Christabel LaMotte.

He went to see Dr. Bailey
in Lincoln-- a woman.

LaMotte. Hmm. No.

- Well, it probably came
to nothing then.
- Exactly.

Or he would
have told you.

Wouldn't he?

Seal Court's
over there.

So how long
did Christabel live at
this Seal Court place?

Ages. The last 20
or so years of her life.

Excuse me.
Sorry.

"To a dusty shelf
we aspire."

You should drop by Seal Court
before the train.

And what do you do
in London, Mr. Michell?

Are you a teacher as well?
No, not yet.
I'm doing a fellowship.

- Which means what, exactly?
- On the dole.

Um, my field's
Victorian poetry.

We had a sort of poet
in this house once.

Terrible, sentimental stuff
about God and death

and the dew and fairies.

Why don't you show
this young man
Christabel's room, Maud?

And why don't you
stay tonight?

You're under no obligation
to stay, of course.

It's just Joan's way.
Misses our daughter.

Quite a drive back,
actually.
No, we're fine.

Oh, well.

Hardly ever come up here.

With the wheelchair,
of course, we bunk down
on the ground floor.

I haven't been up here
since I was a child.

Maud, is this the photograph
at your house?

Yes, that's
Christabel's niece, May.

That's my
great-great-grandmother.

Christabel wrote dozens
of poems about this place.

"What are
they who haunt our dreams

"and weaken our desires

and turn us
from a solid face."

"And in the depth
of wintery night,

they slumber
in the night and bright."

"Dolly keeps a secret
safer than a friend.

Dolly's silent sympathy
lasts without end."

"No rush of action,
this is our doom.

To live a long life out
in a dark room."

Maud.

It's pretty
incredible, huh?

Fergus, it's me.

I-I'm out of town tonight
on business.

I've stumbled
onto a connection

between Christabel
and Randolph Ash

and have a few questions
for you.

Call me on 015-2263-2416.

Roland.

- Roland.

Roland. Roland.
No!

Roland, it's me.
It's Maud.

- What is it?
- Listen.

"Dolly keeps a secret
safer than a friend.

Dolly's silent sympathy
lasts without end."

God.

I was so sure.

Sympathy.
Sympathy.

Sympathy, meaning what?

Mutual affection
or understanding.

Favor, pity, or even accord.
But that's not it, is it?

That's not it at all.

She uses silent sympathy
in a more classical context.

Like structural support.
Dolly conceals it.

Yes, but not within,
beneath.

There's a door.
There's a door.

- I can't believe it.
- Let me see.

Be-Be careful.
They're very precious.
I'll be very careful.

Oh, God, we shouldn't
be doing this.

What do you mean,
we shouldn't be doing this?

Why'd you drag me
up here, then?

What are you doing?
I'm going to read.

Stop. We've got to
ask the Baileys.

You ask,
and the next time

you see these is
under glass in New Mexico.

Stop it.
Stop. Stop. Stop.

All right. All right.

Put-- can we please
at least do it properly?

Let me run downstairs
and get some note cards
and some pencils.

All right.
Go, go! Hurry!

Look at this. We've got
Ash and Christabel's
letters here.

Look. Come here.
Listen.
What?

"Dear Miss LaMotte,

"It was a great pleasure
to talk to you

"at dear
Crabb-Robinson's party.

"May I hope that you too
enjoyed our talk,

and may I have the pleasure
of calling on you?"

She says, "No,
but you may write.

"Would you rather
not have a letter,
however imperfect,

"than a plate
of cucumber sandwiches,

"however exquisitely
fine cut?

Know you would,
and so would I."

"I was entranced
and moved by your brief
portrait of your father."

"I write nonsense,
but if you can't write again,

"you shall have a sober essay
on what you will.

"Yours to command
in some things.

"Where I was born,
Christabel LaMotte."

"was a small place too.

"Not like this.
Not bare.

"A brilliant, dusty hutch
of mysteries..."

...a cabinet of curiosities.

What did my eyes
first light on?

I am a creature of my pen.

My pen is
the best part of me.

I send you now
two more poems.

I eagerly read
your mythic tales of mire

and found them
both charming and sad.

Your verse is rich,
but perhaps the metaphor
is richer.

Dear Mr. Ash,

I live circumscribed
and self-communing.

It is best so,

not like a princess
in the thicket,

more like a spider
in her web.

"Inclined to snap at visitors
or trespassers,

"not perceiving the distinction
until too late.

Thus, it is unwise to call."

I know you live very quietly.

but I could be
very quiet.

I only want to discuss
Dante and Shakespeare,

Wordsworth and Coleridge
and Goethe.

Not forgetting, of course,
Christabel LaMotte

and the ambitious
fairy project.

Oh, sir, things flicker
and shift.

All spangle and sparkle
and flashes.

I have sat all this long evening
by my fireside,

turning towards
a caving in,

the crumbling
of the consumed coals,

to where I am leading myself--

to lifeless dust, sir.

My dear friend--

for I may call myself
a friend, may I not?

I speak to you as I would
speak to any person

who possesses
my true thoughts,

for my true thoughts
have spent more time
in your company

than in anyone else's
these last few weeks.

Where my thoughts are,

there am I in truth.

"My dear friend,
it has been borne in upon me

that there are dangers
in our continued conversation."

The world would not look well
upon letters

between a woman living
in shared solitude as I do

and a man...

even if that man
were a great poet.

And if one is to live
in this way,

it is imperative
to appear respectable
in the eyes of that world

and your wife.

It is a sealed pact.

It is a chosen way of life
in which I have been
wondrously happy

and not alone in being so.

"I have chosen a way,
dear friend.

"I must hold to it.

"Be patient.
Be generous. Forgive.

"May I also request
that you return
my correspondence to me.

"In this way,
at least our letters
will remain together.

"I have known incandescence

"and must decline
to sample it any further.

"This now goes to the post.

Forgive its faults
and forgive me. Christabel."

My dear Christabel...

your letter came as a shock
to me, I will confess.

I was at first
not only shocked,

but angry that
you should write so.

As you've asked
about my wife,

however, I will tell you.

I love Ellen,
but not as I love you.

There are good reasons
which I cannot discuss

why my love for you
may not hurt her.

I do not feel
I have been

a proper wife
to you, Randolph.

Without children,

without ever
any kind of physical--

Nonsense, Ellen.

Nonsense.

There are many
types of love.

All sorts.

And ours
are good between us.

It has been
most profound.

I must say to you
what is in my mind.

I have called you my muse,
and so you are.

I could call you
with even greater truth...

my love.

Whoa, whoa, whoa.
What? What?
Don't do that. What?

So he sends his response.
He sends her more letters.

She doesn't answer them.
She ignores them.

Typical.

No. She-She chose her life
with Blanche.

It's not typical.
It's remarkable.

"I shall hope against hope
that this note is the dove

"which will return with
the wished-for olive branch.

My letters are like
Noah's ravens-- they have
sped out across the Thames."

They have
sped out across the Thames
and yet have not returned.

I send this note by hand
in the hope that
you might receive it.

Where are the letters?

They're gone.

I tore them up.
I burned them.

And the others
from my desk?

The same.

I beg for us
to be as we were,
Christabel.

Sweetheart, please.

This house, so happy once,

is full of weeping and wailing
and black headaches.

I ask myself
to whom I may turn

and think of you,
my friend--

the unwitting cause
of all this grief.

I shan't forget the first
glimpse of your form...

illuminated as it was
by flashes of sunlight.

I have dreamt nightly
of your face

and walked the landscape
of my life with the rhythms

of your writing
ringing in my ears.

I shall never forget
our shining progress

towards one another.

Never have I felt
such a concentration
of my entire being.

I cannot let you
burn me up,

nor can I resist you.

No mere human
can stand in a fire
and not be consumed.

You mind reading
that last part out
one more time?

"I cannot let you
burn me up,

"nor can I resist you.

"No mere human
can stand in a fire

and not be consumed."

- That?
- Yeah.

Thank you, and--

"And I took your hand.
Mine rested in yours

with trust and relief."

Do you have regrets?

I should regret venturing out
to Crabb-Robinson's party
that evening.

I should regret it,
but I do not.

Not even in that
most sensible corner
of my heart.

What are we to do?

"I do not wish to
damage your life.

"Nonetheless, I shall
be in the church
at noon tomorrow

"with what strikes me
as the holiest of prayers

"that you should join me
on a journey to Yorkshire

and journey out of time
beyond our lives
here on Earth."

This is unbelievable.
That was the last one.

You're kidding me.
No.

Well, did she go
with him or not?
Hands up!

You two?

- What's this then?
- There's been
no harm done, George.

How do we know
if harm's been done?

I think it was very clever
of Maud to find your treasure.

Yes. Well, must
take advice, Joanie.

How long before Sir George
takes advice?

He'll dither around for
a while, but not long.

Blanche's diary has nothing
for that period.

What about Ellen Ash?
Did she keep a journal?

Yeah, in London,
but it's mostly just
boring housewife stuff.

God is in the boring
housewife stuff.
We should check it.

Bailey here.
Bailey.

Is that Dr. Heath?

No. Um, I'm a friend
of Maud Bailey's.

I was wondering,
is she there?

No, she isn't.
Could you get off the line?
I'm expecting the doctor.

Oh, um, have you seen
Roland Michell?

Not since
this morning, no.

But his work
went well, did it?

The fairy poem?
I haven't the foggiest idea.

Do you mean
Christabel LaMotte?

Get off the line!

I looked in Ellen's diary.
There's nothing.

But, uh, this should
cheer you up.

It's in her correspondence.

I'm not going to ask
if this is the original.

I wouldn't.

"Dear Mrs. Ash,

"I'm at present
totally unknown to you,

"but I have something
to impart to which

"closely concerns both of us
and is in my case a matter
of life and death.

"May I trespass on your time
and come to see you?

"You would do wrong
to keep this evidence
which I send to you now.

"It is not mine;
it is also not yours.

"What I say is true and urgent
as you will come to see.

Yours sincerely,
Blanche Glover."

Mrs. Ash.

Maybe Blanche didn't
tear the letters but kept them
and showed them to Ellen.

It all fits beautifully.

Well, perhaps, um,
both of our departments
should work on this together.

- Is that what you want?
- I don't know. Do you?

No. I wanna go after them.
I wanna find out what happened.

I wanna go to Yorkshire
and follow their trail.
I need to know.

I thought you were mad
when you came to Lincoln
with your stolen letter.

Now I feel
exactly the same.

I haven't really thanked you.

I mean, properly,
for all of this.

I have difficulty
with compliments and such.

Giving or receiving?

Both, actually.

Well, I won't tell you
you're amazing-looking then.

You're probably
sick of hearing it.
Thank you. It's--

I'm the last guy
who'd act on it,
with Fergus and all.

- What does "and all" mean?
- Nothing.

Just a little problem
that I have... socially.

Do you take anything for it?

It's not that kind
of a problem.

It's just relationships
on the whole. They're
not really for me.

- Anyway--
- Yes...

Anyway... thank you.

You're welcome.

Thank you for agreeing
to meet me, Professor.

Well, you made me
rather curious.
Drink, sir?

Scotch with
just a dash of soda.

Sir? Thank you.
Uh, I'll have the same.
Thank you.

Um, I wanted to learn
of the connection

between Ash
and Christabel LaMotte.

LaMotte and Ash?
There isn't any.

Well, Roland Michell
has made a discovery

with a colleague of mine,
Maud Bailey.

I'm sorry.
Who the hell
is Roland Michell?

Oh, Blackadder's
research assistant.
American.

Blondish.
Well, anyway,
he seems to know you.

And he thinks
it's important.

And does Blackadder agree?

I don't believe
he knows anything about it.

Do you wish to be
lunched separately?

Respectably,
elsewhere from me?

I want to be with you.

I understood that was
what we had decided.

These four weeks
only are ours

but ours alone.

Oh, I, uh--

I hope you will
accept this ring.

I have brought a ring too.

You see?

Proof of my resolution.

You take my breath away.

Not yet.

No. Not yet.

Shall we go out,
then, to explore?

There's your bathroom.

Cupboard.

Your lovely view.

And, of course, the bed.

We'll look
for another hotel.

But this is
where Ash stayed.

Then we'll have
to share a room.

I can bring up
a folding bed

for one of you,
if that's your problem.

We work together, actually.
It's not--

We were expecting
two rooms.
Right.

I'm sure it's more complicated
than I can imagine.

That's a lovely brooch
you're wearing, miss.

I reckon it could be one of
Issac Greenberg's designs.

I'll, uh, get the book
and see if I can tell.

Where did you get this?

I've had it for ages.
It was in the family
dress-up box.

Don't you see?
Ash bought the brooch
for Ellen.

The clasped hands.
Here in Whitby.
We know that.

And this for Christabel.
Oh, right.

So while he was buying this,
he said, um,

"Yes, I'll have
the eternal embrace
for my wife."

No, he wouldn't have
said anything.

He would have just
bought the brooch.

Christabel
would have seen.

It was accepted
between them.

Are you writing
fiction now?

Maybe.

I'm having fun.

Are you?

Yes, I suppose I am.

Don't grimace
when you say it.
It's more convincing.

I suppose
I can be a touch...

empirical at times.

Just a touch.

Hey, you wanna
go for a walk
or something?

I mean,
out in the hills.

For sure
it's earlier than the death
of Victoria's Albert.

Probably late '50s.
1860s maybe.

1859?

Ish?

I think we're getting
near Thomason Falls.

Cropper mentions it--
Mortimer Cropper?

Yeah, Ash's biographer.
All-purpose asshole.

He's literally trekked
every step of Ash's life.

He's happy to tell you
that too.
More than happy, I'm sure.

You know him, huh?

That is beautiful.

Maud. What?

I think Christabel
did come here.

Listen.

"Three elements combined
to make the fourth.

"But above the water
and the light,
together made

a halo
in the darkened cave."

That poem's dated
1859, July.

See if there's
a cave behind it.

That might be all
the proof we need.

Ah--

I know this is
an awfully repressed sort
of English thing to say,

but what the hell
are you doing?

There's only one way
to find out.

Of course, we could
have just asked someone.

Whoo! Maud! Maud!

I found it!

Your hands are shaking.

Are you afraid?

No.

A little.

"These are and were there.

"The garden and the tree,
the serpent at its root.

"The fruit of gold, the woman
in the shadow of the boughs.

"The running water
and the grassy space.

They are and were there."

I don't mind that.

See, you could grow
to like Ash.

Yes.

He's sort of a soft-core
misogynist.

Why do you always
tie your hair up like that?

It has to do
with Fergus Wolfe mostly.

Fergus?
How to do with Fergus?

When we met,
he drove me mad quoting Yeats.

"Who could love you
for yourself alone
and not your yellow hair?"

Yes.

And then I was accused once
by my sister feminists
at a conference

of dyeing it
to attract men.

Really?
Yes.

So I shaved it off,
all of it.

And did he?

Did who what?
Fergus love you
without your yellow hair?

No.

We fought about it.

We drive each other mad.
I don't even like him,

but I can't seem to--
Freud.

"On the other side of attraction
lies repulsion."

Or was that Calvin Klein?

- Do you believe that?
- Uh, I wouldn't know.

I don't really
allow myself to do

that Ash/Christabel
grand passion kind of thing.

Allow?
Yeah.

Jealousy, obsession,
all that. Not anymore.

You're lucky then.

It all gets so--
just such a tangle.

It's a tangle
most people want.

Not me though.

My antics made a lot
of people unhappy.

One horribly so.

For me...

whenever I feel
anything for anyone, I--

I go cold all over.

- What makes you do that?
- Fear, I suppose.

Fear of being burned up...
by love.

Listen to us.

Yes. Aren't we just maudlin?

Maud, you should
let your hair out.

You should let it breathe.
And don't do the ice thing,

'cause you have nothing
to worry about from me.

Christabel said,
"Fear all men."

Well, Christabel
didn't know me.

I don't want to take
anything from you.

So, then, we're both...
perfectly safe.

Right.

How can we bear it?

Every day
we will have less.

Would you rather
have had nothing?

No.

I thank God
that if there had to be
a dragon it was you.

Wait. Wait.

No. I was just trying to get out
from under the covers.
No. No.

This is-- We shouldn't
be doing this.
It's dangerous.

Well, I really--
No, because I like you.
I like you a lot.

I just don't want
to blow it here, and--

Well, it doesn't matter
to me, honestly.

What do you mean
it doesn't matter?

Sorry. I think
we're probably just--

In these cramped quarters.
It was a mistake.

Maud. Maud!

I didn't mean that.

Let's not beat
the thing dead.

It happened, it's over,
and we're adults.

Speak for yourself.

I can't imagine
what you're like after you
actually sleep with someone.

Maud, I think
that you are very--

You know?

No, I don't know.

So, what, we're friends
now, is that it?

Yeah. That's a lot.

No, I agree.
It's fine.

Yeah. It's perfect.

Anyway, we're getting
off the track here.

We came to investigate
them, not us.

So, what ever happened
to Blanche?
Blanche drowned.

Oh.

Where was Christabel?
We don't know
where she was.

The year before's
a bit blank too.

You don't know where she was
that entire year?

There's some speculation
that she went to France,

but I have nothing
to support that.

Okay, so...

Christabel
comes here with Ash

and then disappears,
on paper, at least.

Yes.
And Blanche suicides.

Jesus.

- What are you doing?

It's a poem.
I've been writing it
as I've watched you.

You're not pleased with it?

On the contrary.
I think it perfectly expresses
the joy I have felt with you.

Then why that?

These feelings--
I want them to survive.

I know I can never
declare all this--

this love.

There. I've said it.
I know it cannot be declared
to the world.

What I may do is scatter
these words from the train

and hope that
they somehow take root.

They will flourish.
I swear it.

So... what next?

I mean, for you.

I suppose I'll check
through the archives

and see if there's
any clue at all where Christabel
might have been that year.

Good.

I guess I'll just, uh--

hell, I don't know--

go look up shit
on the microfiche.

Suffer over you.

Good-bye.

See ya.

Lost your way?
Don't do tours here.

Sir George Bailey?
Who wants to know?

Professor Mortimer Cropper,
curator of the Stan Collection,

Robert De Leon University,
Harmony City, New Mexico.

And this is Dr. Wolfe.
Good morning.

I'm a busy man.
My wife's ill.

I can quite understand
that, sir.

Sources have led me to believe
that you may be in possession

of some documentation
by Randolph Henry Ash.

Whoa.
Don't shoot, please.

Get off my land.

Do you have any idea
what we're talking about here?

Do you? Do you have
any idea how much

such pieces,
if they existed,

how much
they would be worth?

Worth?

Do you mind if we swing
past the university?

Bit of unfinished
business.

Miss Bailey, I presume.
The accomplice.

The very same.

Good God, you're
like Bonnie and Clyde.

Come on.
I need a picture of her.

I've never seen you
like this. Just go.

Take the Porsche
and go.

Fergus, what?

Uh, if Fergus went out
to get Indian food,

I'm gonna--
I'm gonna feel really stupid.

No, he didn't.

India wouldn't be
far enough away, actually.

Come inside. I'll explain.

You sure? I mean,
about me coming in.

Yes, very.

So I left Fergus a message
from Seal Court,

which apparently
put him on our trail,

and he came here looking
for answers--

he and Cropper
from the sound of it.

So that was Cropper's
car outside?

I think Fergus
has found something.

He's been spooking
around the museum,

sending out
a bunch of faxes.

Ah--

I wouldn't be
so quick to do that.

Yeah.

The British Museum
fax log sheet.

"To University of Nantes
from Fergus Wolfe.

"Subject: Christabel LaMotte.
Information on LaMotte
genealogy.

Request loan of journal
of Sabine de Concasse."

Unfortunately for Fergus,
we have to log our faxes.

You're shameless.

So what are we
gonna do now?

We gonna try to beat 'em
to France, or--

or are we just
gonna stare at each other?

That is the question,
isn't it?

Mm-hmm.

I have another one
for you.
What's that?

What are you really
doing here?

Well, I, uh--

I needed to see your face.

I just want to let you know
that whatever happened
in Whitby,

which unfortunately
was not much...

It's not because
anything that you did.

Not at all.

I just didn't want
to jump into something.

I mean, I did
and I do... want to.

Badly.

I just didn't
want to mess this up.

And I just want to see--

I want to see if there's
an us in you and me.

Would-Would you like that?

I'll take that
as a yes.

Ah, oui. Excusez-moi.
Nous sommes confrères.

When will she be back?

Could you check for us?

- She will return on Thursday.
- Okay.

Au revoir.
Merci.

You and your shoplifting, huh?
I can't take you anywhere.

"Dear Professor Wolfe:
Since I wrote to you last,
I've made another discovery.

"Amongst Sabine's papers
was her journal

"in which she writes
about LaMotte's visit
to Brittany in 1859

and the subsequent arrival
of a mysterious visitor."

I know how things are.
I wish to help you.

You know how things are, do you?
Tell me, Cousin Sabine,

how do you think
things are with me?

I'm a grown woman.
You are a girl.

I do not desire
any help from you.

Christabel's condition
became worse

after she received word
from London

that her close friend
had died.

She left England
because she was pregnant,

and Blanche
committed suicide.

What happened to the baby?

It must have been stillborn.

Or died.

Maybe it was taken in
by nuns or a local family.

And brought up here.

I'd like to think that,
but I wonder.

- You wonder what?
- I don't know. I just--

She comes here alone, hears
that Blanche has killed herself.

She's pregnant, distraught.

Geez.

I mean, I've no
evidence for it.

Can you imagine
how she must have felt?

Yes, I can.

So when do we see
Christabel next?

Autumn, 1860,
in her references
to the Vestal Lights.

It was a group of women
who used to meet with mediums
on a regular basis.

Really? You know,
Ash hated spiritualists.
Pretty openly.

You think
that's a connection
worth tracking down?

I don't know.

Please, make a circle
with your hands.

Close your eyes.

White earth. Valley.

A waterfall.

A child. Love.

Two people. Deception.

Letters. Two people.

Words. Death.

What have you done?

A field.

Where is the child?

What have you done
with the child?

You have made
a murderess of me.

"I understood at the time
that Mr. Ash was inquiring

"after the spirit of
a departed child of his own,

"but I am told that
this could not be the case

as Mr. Ash is childless."

Was there any mention
of Heloise in your research?

I don't know...
nor do I care.

Look, I've got to get back.

What's going on?
Nothing. I'm just tired,
that's all, so I should--

Come on.
What's wrong, seriously?

I don't actually want
to discover anything
else about them.

You know?

I'm finding things out
that are just--

It's horrible when you
think about it really--
men and women together.

She gave up her life,
didn't she?

A perfectly decent life
that I've always admired.
And for what? For nothing.

No. Not nothing.

Oh, really? For what then?
A child who died, a lover
drowned, and to what end?

She and Ash,
my own parents

and every relationship
I've ever had--

It's all doomed.
We can't seem to help

but just tear
each other apart.

Well, what about us?
You didn't include us.
What about that?

Look, I--

I can't think about
anything right now.

So, okay.

So this is the, uh--
this is the icy pull-back
part then, huh?

- What?
- You know, you get close,
you pull away, you get--

I mean, this is part
of the pattern, right?

- What are you talking about?
- Your fear of men mantra
from Yorkshire.

That's what
I'm talking about.

No, I get it.
It's cool.

That's the way
you play it.

Do you honestly
believe that?

Is that what you think
this is to me? A game? Is it?

Well, finally, then,
all this talk of us

really comes to nothing,
doesn't it?

Yes, I guess you're right.
It's nothing.

Dear Professor Blackadder:

I did try to tell you
about my discovery before

but found that I couldn't.

Please read these two letters,

and you will begin
to understand.

I'm sorry for deceiving you.

Sincerely, Roland Michell.

And it's well documented
that Ellen Ash set a box
on Ash's coffin--

a kind of sealed container.

We'd always imagined
it was just trinkets,

but in the light
of Michell's discovery,

who knows what treasures
might be buried there.

That box is mine, isn't it?
It's my property.

Once you get it from Lord Ash,
it's absolutely yours.

Until then,
we keep it a secret.

Any discovery amongst
Lord Ash's things,

and, uh--
and I purchase it from you.

It's all above board,
no one the wiser.

Cropper, are you
absolutely sure of that?

Listen.
Uh, where is it?

Yeah. "I place this
letter in his hands,

"and if ghouls
dig it up again,

then perhaps justice
will be done when I am
not here to see it."

Dear Madam: We are older now
and my fires at last are out.

I know that you are
more than aware of my name,

but I find you must see it
in print one last time.

It has been made known to me
that your husband
is near to death,

so I have writ down,
for his eyes only, some things.

I find I cannot say what things
and have sealed the letter.

If you wish to read it,
it is in your hands,

though I must hope that he
will see it first and decide.

I have done great harm,
though I meant none to you.

I'll see they get back,
no questions asked.

You're more enterprising
than I gave you credit for.

Was there a compliment
in there somewhere?

Hmm? Yes, probably.

What I can't believe
is Fergus Wolfe
conniving with Cropper.

I thought I was
a better judge of men.

Well, see, that's
where you went wrong.

You gave him credit
for being one.

Thank you.

Hi.
Hi.

Thank you
for coming.
Sure.

I believe
that may be her.

I, uh-- I'm sorry.
No, I'm sorry.

No, listen.
I lost it totally.
It wasn't you.

So, why don't we all
talk some strategy?

Let me introduce
you to, uh--
All right.

Professor Blackadder, Paola,
this is Dr. Bailey.

Maud.
Maud.

How do you do?

So, do we really think that
Cropper's capable of something
like this, of robbing a grave?

It's creepy, the idea
of opening a grave.

Let's just keep going.

Jesus.

The moping owl does
to the moon complain.
Complain.

Are you ready?

Yeah.
Hold the light up.

Fergus! Fergus!

Yes. It's gotta be.

I found it, Fergus.
I found it.

Oh, my God.
I found it, Fergus.

Great!

Hey, Cropper!
Cropper!

This has nothing
to do with you people.

Wait!
Get off of me!
Get off of me!

No you don't!

Traitor!
Bloody conniver!
Please!

Wait!

What are you doin'?

Oh, shit.

Are you sure
we should be doing this?

I told Blackadder
we'd just take a look

before we handed it over
to the museum.

Can you hold that there?

Maud, look at this.

It's her handwriting.

"My dear, my dear:

"They tell me
you are very ill.

"Perhaps I am wrong
to disturb you at this time

"with unseasonable memories,

"but I find I have, after all,
a thing which I must tell you.

"You will say it should have
been told 20 years ago,

"but I could, or would, not.

"You have a daughter...

"who is well and married

"and the mother
of a beautiful boy.

"I've sent you a picture.

"You will see she resembles
both her parents,

"neither of whom she knows
to be her parent.

"When I said
at that terrible séance that
you had made a murderess of me,

"I was speaking of poor Blanche,
who then torments me daily...

"and I thought,
'Let him think so then...

"'if he knows me so little.'

"I had a secret fear, you see.

"I was afraid that
you would wish to take her--

"you and your wife--
for your own.

But I could not let her go."

Over here.

And so I hid her from you

and you from her.

She loves her adoptive
parents most deeply.

Me, she does not love.

So I am punished now,
living at Seal Court with them
and watching her grow.

I have been angry
for so long

with all of us,

and now, near the end,

I think of you again
with clear love.

Did we not--

Did you not flame
and I catch fire?

Was not the love
that we found

worth the tempest
that it brewed?

I feel it was.
I know it was.

"If you are able or willing,
please send me a sign
that you have read this.

"I dare not ask
if you forgive.

Christabel LaMotte."

Ash had never read this.

He never knew
he had a child.

You're descended from both
Christabel and Ash.

My God.

All these clues,
they're for you.

For us.

You're so beautiful.

There are things that happen,
not spoken or written of.

A poet walked out
one summer's day

seeking forgiveness
from a love long lost.

He found
something else instead.

This is how it was.

Morning.
Good morning.

What's your name?

May Bailey, but I have
another name I don't like.

Do you? What's that?

Maya Thomason Bailey.

Well...

Maya was the, uh--

the mother of Hermes,

and I know a waterfall
called Thomason.

A waterfall? Really?
Yes.

In Yorkshire.
With a lovely cave
hidden behind it.

Where do you live?

I live in that house
down there.

And my mother lives there
and my father

and my two brothers.

Oh, and my Aunt Christabel too.

Yes, I think
I know your mother.

You have
the true look of her.

No one else says that.
I think I look like my father.

You look like
your father too.

Can you make daisy chains?

Yes.

Yes, I'll make you a crown.

But, um... will you
give me a lock of your hair?

Like fairy story.

Just so.

Now, would you
take this note...

to your aunt.

Tell her that
you saw a poet

who was coming
to meet her

but met you instead.

I'll try to remember.

Thank you.