Romancing Miss Bronte

by Juliet Gael

  Branwell could be thanked for what little excitement enlivened their days—although it was generally of the unpleasant kind. His drinking debts continued to mount, and their father was getting unpleasant letters from the proprietors of taverns demanding settlement of Branwell’s bills and threatening court action if he did not pay.

  Branwell’s letters to Lydia Robinson always came back unopened, but on occasion the lady would send him money through the mediator of her family physician. Branwell would fly off to Halifax for a bout of drinking with his friends and come home broke and ill, threatening to take his life. On occasion he would sober up and send off a few letters seeking employment as a tutor on the Continent, but these efforts were halfhearted and short-lived. He had always been of slight build, and they were so concerned with the state of his mind that they paid scant attention to his wasting body. He went days without eating and nights without sleeping, and after a while the opium gained ascendancy over whiskey and gin. For the price of a few pence he could find days of relief from his misery. Under the influence of its pleasurable effects, he would sometimes rise from his stupor and scribble out a few lines of poetry, thinking he had produced something brilliant that would make his fame. He would lie sprawled on the sofa in a trance and remain there for hours, until his father picked him up and carried him to bed.

  Meanwhile, the manuscripts of Wuthering Heights, The Professor, and Agnes Grey slowly made their way around the London publishing houses. After a month or two, they would land back in Haworth, returned with a curt letter of rejection, whereupon Charlotte would tie them all up again in fresh wrapping paper, address the parcel to the next publisher on her list, bind it with the same knotted string, and trot down to the village to post it off again.

  Their volume of poetry sank without a trace, having peaked at total sales of two. When Charlotte requested several of the unsold copies, Aylott & Jones was only too happy to unburden itself of the little book. Charlotte had the idea of sending copies to their favorite authors, to Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Thomas De Quincey; it was better than leaving them around the house. It was just one more thing they would have to hide.

  Anne was sitting on a stool in the shade of the cherry tree, shelling peas, when Charlotte came through the back gate. She set down the bowl and hurried to meet her.

  “Where have you been, Tally? We were ever so worried.”

  Charlotte offered up a weak smile. “I’m quite all right. I’ve been for a walk.”

  “Tabby said you had a letter. She said it upset you.” Then, in a quiet voice, she added, “Was it from Brussels?”

  “No, dearest. I never hear from my Brussels friends anymore.”

  Emily came out of the house, dusting the flour from her hands. “What happened?”

  Charlotte reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter. “It’s from a publisher.”

  Anne said, “If it’s from a publisher, how bad can it be? We’ve already been rejected by nearly every publisher in London.”

  “Not by this one.” She passed the letter to Anne with a forced smile. “Thomas Newby will publish you, but you must bear the costs, as before.”

  Emily leaned over Anne’s shoulder and the two of them read the letter together. After a moment, Emily’s face clouded with a look of consternation.

  “It doesn’t say anything about your book.”

  “No,” Charlotte said. “They returned it to me. It does not interest them. They find that Wuthering Heights is sufficiently long to take up two volumes of the proposed three-volume set. Agnes Grey will make up the third volume.”

  A deep pink spread over Emily’s face. This was an outcome they would never have predicted, that Charlotte’s book would be refused and theirs would be published.

  “They say here they want fifty pounds,” Anne said. She looked to Emily. “We would have to sell more of our railway shares. Do we have that much?”

  “I think we do. But do we want to?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said firmly. “Yes, you do. We’ve tried nearly every publisher in London. We’ve been trying for a year. If this is what it takes, then you should do it.”

  As she untied her straw bonnet, the wind caught it. It sailed out of her hands, rolling across the dusty yard. Emily sprinted after it, but Keeper got there first and snatched it up in his mouth, giving it a fierce shake.

  “Drop it, Keeper,” Emily commanded. When he gave the bonnet another playful shake, she stunned him with an angry blow across the head. He dropped the bonnet and sat cowering at her feet, gazing up at her with dark, sorrowful eyes.

  Emily dusted off the bonnet and brought it back to her sister.

  The dog had slobbered on the ribbon and there were tooth marks in the straw brim. Charlotte wiped it off and then quietly turned and went inside.

  The manuscript Newby had returned lay unopened in Charlotte’s room for several days. When she finally decided to send it out again, she was in a defiant mood; she scratched through Newby’s name in bold, inky strokes and wrote to the side of it: “Smith, Elder & Co., 65 Cornhill, London.” Charlotte disliked untidiness in all its forms, and such carelessness was against her nature; but it seemed to her, disheartened as she was, that her Professor was not good for much more.

  Mr. Williams’s desk was situated in a cramped and close little corner of the London publishing house of Smith, Elder & Co., removed from the clerks and at some distance from the stove, making it hot in the summer and cold in the winter, but this seemingly inferior situation was in no way an indication of his status in the firm. His appearance was equally deceptive: stooped and gray before his years, with an air of shabby neglect about his dress, he shuffled around the tables of manuscripts and books with a hangdog look, as though the solemn and sober work of literature had somehow exerted a gravitational pull on his body so that every aspect of his person dragged, sagged, or drooped. In reality, he was an intellectually lively and remarkably sensitive man, with keen commercial and literary judgment—which was why he sat in his cramped little corner just outside George Smith’s door, and why every manuscript came across his desk, and why every book they published required his stamp of approval.

  It was a sluggish August day, and there were only a few clerks in the office. London had fairly emptied itself. Parliament was out of session, the upper classes had gone off to their Continental watering holes, and only the most industrious men of trade labored on. George Smith was one of these, and by virtue of his responsibilities as general manager, so was Mr. Williams. Mr. Williams had just finished reading a very intriguing manuscript, and he was still formulating his thoughts about it when George swung open his door and stepped out.

  “Williams, are you still here?”

  “Indeed sir, and I shall be for some time to come.”

  “Egods, man, it’s hot out here. Why don’t you open your window?”

  “I’m quite comfortable, sir.”

  “You could take off your coat, you know.”

  “That would be unseemly, sir.” Then, noticing that George Smith was standing there without his coat, he added, “I would not like to set a poor example for the young clerks, sir.”

  “Well, can you come in here? I need your advice.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  George Smith’s office was small but had the advantage of a skylight, and the brightness of the room caused Williams to blink, so that he didn’t notice the bolts of silks and satins stacked high on a pair of chairs.

  “Here,” George said, reaching for a bolt of midnight blue silk and unfurling it beneath Williams’s eyes. “What do you think of this one?”

  Williams peered at him over the rims of his spectacles. George Smith was a dashingly handsome young man. He had been blessed with one of those little whimsies of nature—a deeply dimpled smile—as well as lively eyes and a muscular build.

  “For a waistcoat, sir?”

  “Yes. The family’s out of mourning now, Williams, and all of a sudden my mother finds that my wardrobe needs refu
rbishing.”

  “Has it been a year already, sir?”

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  George had taken over the small publishing house after his father’s death the year before. He had inherited some dishonest partners and crushing debt, but he was a hard worker and was proving to be a keen businessman.

  “Sir,” Williams said, with a twist of a smile, “do you really think I’m the one you should be asking? Perhaps you might wish to consult your mother or sisters?”

  “They are the last ones I should wish to consult. They can never agree on anything. Come now, man, I trust you.”

  Williams eyed the bolts of cloth, unfurled a gray satin and held it up to the light.

  George said, “My tailor tells me it’s all in the reds now.”

  Williams replied thoughtfully, “Does he, now?” Then, after having briefly unrolled a few more bolts and inspected them with the same close scrutiny, he chose four from the batch and with a decisive air laid them aside.

  “There, sir. That should do it.”

  George gave a momentary glance at the selection. With a smile of gratitude and relief he said, “Yes. That will do nicely. Thank you, Williams.”

  “On another matter, sir. A manuscript just came across my desk. A writer I know absolutely nothing about, but I thought I might bring it to your attention.”

  “Something we might be interested in?”

  “Not so much the book itself—it’s a rather slight novel—would make up only a single volume, I’d say—and I’m afraid the story lacks appeal. However”—Williams paused and gripped the back of a chair with both hands—“there is great literary power on the page.”

  George leaned back against his desk and folded his arms. Whenever Williams spoke up, George listened carefully. Williams had been writing theater reviews for the Critic before George had snatched him up to work for Smith, Elder; the man had extraordinary insight and an eye for talent.

  “Yes, go on.”

  “I think perhaps with a different subject … if the author might be persuaded to make another attempt …”

  “And you’re just the man to do that, Williams.”

  “Should you like me to write to him?”

  “Yes, do. And leave me the book. I’ll take a look at it this evening. What’s the title?”

  “The Professor. Written by a Mr. Currer Bell. Appears to be a northerner, sir. From Yorkshire.”

  The letter Charlotte received from Mr. William Smith Williams, literary assistant to George Smith of Smith, Elder & Co., was two pages long. She knew when she broke open the seal that it was no mere rejection, and she hurried up to her room, closed the door, and read it with trembling hands. They had declined to publish The Professor, but the book had caught their attention. Mr. Williams had been able to look past the story’s shortcomings and was able to discuss at length its merits and qualities, and believed he had discovered a writer of promise.

  Charlotte sat down to write a reply that very day, explaining that she had nearly completed a longer work that might interest him. Three weeks later, she walked four miles to Keighley to the train station, where she posted the fair copy of the completed manuscript of Jane Eyre.

  Sunday was George Smith’s only day of rest, and his mother, who worried that he worked excessively long hours, jealously guarded what little time he spent at home. She was understandably upset when—at eight in the morning, while they were still having breakfast—the doorbell rang.

  “It’s Mr. Williams, sir,” the servant announced. “The gentleman would like a word with you.”

  “Oh dear, George, not on a Sunday,” Mrs. Smith exclaimed. “And before you’ve finished breakfast.”

  George swallowed a mouthful of sausage, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and nodded to the servant.

  “Show him in.”

  Mr. Williams entered hesitantly, clutching his hat and a parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm. He nodded to Mrs. Smith, who was busy tucking a graying strand of hair into her white morning cap.

  “Good morning, madam,” he said. “I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “I suppose it must be important if you’ve come all the way to Bayswater on a Sunday morning,” George said.

  “Actually, sir, I spent the night at the office. Finishing this.” He stepped forward with the bundle. “I urge you to read it at your earliest possible convenience.”

  George put down his napkin and reached for the parcel.

  “Is this our new literary sensation?”

  “It may well be, sir. Do you remember the name Currer Bell?”

  “Was that The Professor?”

  “Yes. That’s the one. This is his new work. Quite a different story altogether. Title is Jane Eyre.”

  George took it into his study after breakfast, thinking to read the first few chapters, perhaps skim through a few more. He settled down in his reading chair and picked up the manuscript. Before long, the servant knocked and entered.

  “It’s your groom, sir. He’s brought your horse.”

  “Brought my horse?”

  “Yes, sir. You were to ride today. You were to meet Mr. Sturbridge in the country.”

  “Not until noon.”

  “It is noon, sir.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “I’m afraid it is, sir.”

  George took out his watch.

  “By Jove, it is.” He set aside the manuscript, went to his desk, and jotted off a quick note of apology to his friend, excusing himself due to urgent business. He gave it to the servant to deliver to the groom, then settled back down in his chair.

  The rest of his day was given up in much the same manner. When the servant came to announce lunch, George asked for a sandwich and a glass of claret, and he read on until evening. He dined quickly and returned to his study. Sometime after eleven his mother slipped in and quietly went about replacing the candles; the ones on the mantel had gone out and George hadn’t even noticed.

  It was after one when he finished the book. On the way to bed, he noticed the light beneath his mother’s door. He found her sitting up in bed, reading. She put down her book and turned to him with the brightly serene smile that had always been there to encourage him, even in their darkest hours.

  “So, you’ve finished it?”

  “Yes.”

  “My dear boy, I do hope it was worth it—you sacrificed your entire day.”

  “It was worth every minute.”

  “Are you going to publish it?”

  “Most definitely. I intend to write Mr. Bell tomorrow and make him an offer.”

  He came across the room and leaned down to kiss her soft cheek, which smelled of lavender water.

  “Good night, Mother.”

  “Good night, George.”

  At the door he hesitated and said over his shoulder, “It was a most extraordinary book. I think I’ve never read anything quite like it.”

  That week, Ellen Nussey came for a long-overdue and much-anticipated visit.

  She was to arrive by the afternoon train, and Charlotte, dressed in light gingham and a straw bonnet newly trimmed in blue ribbon, set off to walk the four miles to the Keighley station. She had barely passed the last straggling cottages and struck off across a field when she heard her name called. She turned to see Emily running up the lane, skirts hiked up around her ankles; Emily squeezed through a stile in the drystone wall and tore across the field toward her.

  Charlotte was alarmed, immediately thinking of her father or some episode with Branwell, and she turned back on the path.

  Emily came flying up, completely out of breath, and drew a letter from her pocket.

  “This came,” she said, a hand on her heaving chest. “From Smith, Elder.”

  Charlotte took it from her and opened it. Emily watched her expression for signs of disappointment or elation, but she could detect neither.

  “So? What did they say?”

  Charlotte cove
red her mouth with her hand, then just as quickly drew it away and said in a faint voice, “They’ve offered me a hundred pounds for Jane Eyre and first refusal rights on my next two books.” She looked up and glanced around the field. The cows had stopped grazing and were watching them with huge liquid eyes. “I think I should sit down now.”

  Charlotte sat on the moss-covered low stone wall while Emily read the letter. Her face had stretched itself into a ridiculously wide smile that she was quite helpless to control. Meanwhile, she was having wild visions of herself running at the cows and scattering them with shrieks of joy. Emily finished the letter and, in a rare display of affection, hooked her arm around her sister’s neck and kissed her roughly on the cheek. Then she began offering advice about the terms, wondering if they might negotiate more than a hundred pounds. Eventually, Charlotte’s brain—confused by an overabundance of happiness—resolved its befuddled state the only way it knew how: she burst into tears.

  It took a while for Charlotte to regain her composure, and then she worried that she would be late arriving in Keighley. She entrusted the letter to Emily, who—before letting Charlotte out of her sight—reminded her that she could not so much as hint about their publishing to Ellen.

  Ellen had arrived on the four o’clock train and was waiting patiently on a bench in the shade of the station, her blond curls a little damp around the edge of her pretty bonnet, her blue eyes betraying just a shade of disappointment. She carried a new parasol the shade of pale mint, although she knew the wind might well ravage it on the walk back to Haworth.

  When they had first met at Roe Head, Charlotte had not cared much for her. Ellen was conformist to the core and slavishly mindful of the opinions of anyone with money or social influence. But she was also kindhearted and affectionate, and Charlotte craved affection. Ellen had arrived at school just days after Charlotte, and she had found fourteen-year-old Charlotte in the empty classroom, huddled behind the long drapes of the bay window sobbing her heart out while the other girls played outdoors. Ellen had gently coaxed her out of hiding, and together the two homesick girls had sat on the window seat and spilled their hearts to each other.