by Juliet Gael
“And besides,” Emily pointed out, “we can’t keep rushing around snatching all the mail and fending off all the questions from the postman about Currer Bell. It was easy when he was blind, but now it’s a little like cat and mouse all the time.”
“Oh, it hasn’t been that difficult,” Charlotte answered. “Even when things pass right under his nose. He is infinitely uncurious about our lives.”
Anne added, “And we should be thankful for that. We’ve had enormous freedoms that other daughters don’t have.”
Charlotte asked her, “Would you like him to read Agnes Grey?”
“Then he’d know about Emily’s book. The reviewers always link our books together.”
“Then we’ll just keep doing what we’ve always done—we glance through the papers before they get to him and pull out any reviews that might tip him off.”
Emily said, “When I was in the village yesterday, I stopped in at Mr. Greenwood’s and asked if he had Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. Do you know what he said?” She smacked the dough onto the table and threw her weight into the rolling pin. “He said he didn’t have it and didn’t plan to order it.” Emily lowered her voice and fell into the Yorkshire dialect she imitated so well: “‘That Wutherin’ Heights seems to be a strange sort of book. About a savage family up here in our parts. A bit of a novelty. Nothin’ I’d recommend to ladies such as yourselves.’”
Anne said, “I am quite grateful now for our anonymity. I cannot imagine what our lives would be like if everyone knew we were the infamous Bell brothers. Although I confess there have been moments when I wished people knew I’d published a novel.” She paused to smile sweetly. “Not out of vanity, but because people have such a mild opinion of me or, rather, they have no opinion at all, and I think I am quite capable of something forceful, something that would shock them out of their complacency. I have seen a good deal of shocking behavior in the great houses where I worked … really shocking things that are condoned in the upper classes, and yet no one seems to find the voice to speak out against them, or if you do, you’re considered vulgar and coarse. I find that the harsher the critics are on Emily, the more resolute I am that my second novel be unfailingly true to life.”
That was the first, the last, and the only time Anne expressed herself so freely and fully on her own writing, specifically on The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Charlotte, who had never approved of Anne’s choice of subject, had the good sense to keep her opinions to herself.
That evening, Charlotte stood at the door of her father’s study, clutching the three compact volumes of Jane Eyre. The room was sacred ground, and even after all these years, she still trembled a little on the threshold, even more so when she came with a request or seeking his approval. When she was eighteen, she had fretted for days before getting up the courage to ask for an allowance. He’d only laughed and said, “Now, what would a woman be wanting her own money for?”
He was reading by the light of his candle, and he did not look up when she entered.
“Papa,” she said, and then she suddenly lost her courage and her knees began to tremble.
“Yes, what is it, Charlotte?” Impatience shaded his voice.
“I’ve written a book.”
“Have you, my dear?” He continued to read.
“It would please me very much if you’d take a look at it.”
“You know I can’t be troubled to read manuscripts. It’s too hard on my eyes.”
“It wouldn’t be much of a strain, Papa.” A hesitation. “It’s in print.”
Finally he glanced up, wearing an expression of mild scorn. “I do hope you haven’t been involving yourself in any silly expenses, now.”
“No, Papa, on the contrary. I’ve already made a little money from it.”
His white brows arched and he lowered his head to peer over the rims of his spectacles.
“Made money, have you?”
“Yes, and I’ve brought you the reviews.” She set the books in front of him and placed the reviews neatly on top. “The reviews are rather good.”
He glanced down at Jane Eyre.
“All right. Leave it here. I’ll take a look at it.”
They were all too anxious to concentrate on their writing that evening. Anne, who had just received the printer’s proofs for The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, put the pages aside and pulled out her knitting. Emily lay sprawled on her stomach on the floor with her feet in the air, reading Mary Barton, a gift to Currer Bell from the author. Charlotte was stitching a new apron, although the work was hard on her eyes. When the clock on the stairs struck nine, they heard the handle turn and looked up to see him standing in the doorway. He had changed dramatically over the past few months; the flinty old man with the ramrod-straight bearing had softened to something sadly fragile.
“Good night, children,” he said. “Don’t stay up too late.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Oh, and you might like to know that Charlotte’s written a book. And it’s a better one than I had expected.”
After he had gone, Emily said, “Does he honestly think we don’t know about it?”
“Of course he doesn’t. It’s just his sense of humor,” Anne said.
“But that’s too dry even for me.”
“I’m sure he feels more than he shows,” Anne said.
Emily glowered at the door where he had been standing; she would have liked to thrash him just then.
Anne returned to her writing and Charlotte went back to calmly whipping stitches, which was also something that she did quite well.
Patrick Brontë wound the clock on the landing. Then he went on up the stairs to his room. His son was sound asleep on the tester bed, curled up in a tight ball. When he was asleep, the father could still see in him traces of the innocent and lovable boy, the onetime prince, the child of promise. Patrick took great care not to wake him. He sat on a chair by the bed, and while he unbuttoned his shirt he thought about his daughter Charlotte and this book she had written. For some time he had noticed that they always seemed to be busy writing, but he had not given it much thought. As children they had written their little stories and occasionally brought them to him to read. He had been pleased that his daughters were occupied, but he had not once imagined that it would come to this.
He hung his trousers and waistcoat neatly on the chair, then unwound the high starched neckcloth and folded it on his dresser. He slipped on his nightshirt, blew out his candle, and knelt beside the bed to pray. His head was swimming with thoughts of his wretchedly failed son and his tiny, clever Charlotte, who had made him proud.
There was a coughing sound from the bed, and a rustle of sheets.
“Get up, old fool,” Branwell slurred, his lips caked with dried saliva. “Nobody up there to hear you.”
Chapter Eleven
Emily had caught Keeper sleeping on Charlotte’s bed, and she whipped him and dragged him growling and snarling down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door. When her temper had cooled, she went looking for him and made atonement with a piece of dried beef. Now they were both sunning themselves in the field just above the parsonage. Keeper’s fat belly rose and fell in a deep, heat-induced sleep, and occasionally his ear twitched away a fly. Emily lay on her back beside him with her hand shielding her eyes from the morning glare, following the shifting cloud shapes as they sailed across the sky in subtle variants of soft whites and grays. It was to her an achingly beautiful spectacle; it awed her that something could appeal so strongly to her senses and yet elude her touch. At moments like this, she did not want to be disturbed.
“There she is.”
It was Anne’s voice. His sleep interrupted, Keeper heaved a deep sigh.
“Emily, dearest, can you come down here? It’s really quite important.”
Emily groped for the dog at her side; his short-haired coat was smooth and warm. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him lift his head; he had heard their approach. Now they entered her line of si
ght, looking down at her, blocking the clouds.
“Emily dearest, we need to talk. Can you please come inside?”
She squinted up at them. Charlotte was wearing her agitated air.
“What’s this about?” Emily grumbled, raising herself on an elbow.
“Emmy, I don’t want to stand in the heat. Will you please come inside?” Charlotte was being very firm, very bossy, and Emily wasn’t in the mood for bossy sisters.
Anne, always the reconciler, said, “I’ll fetch a parasol. You tell her about Newby.” And she went down the hill.
At the mention of her publisher, Emily sat up. “What about him?”
“He’s done a most unscrupulous thing.”
Neither Anne nor Emily were pleased with the way Newby conducted his business. It was clear that he’d brought out their novels only after Currer Bell had attained literary stardom and he’d realized he could profit by association with the name. Earlier that year, Charlotte had worked hard to persuade George Smith to publish her sisters’ next novels, and then Emily and Anne had refused his offer and remained with Newby instead, leaving Charlotte miffed and with egg on her face. It was another example of Emily choosing to be contrary just for the sake of being contrary, and refusing to be managed by her sister, even when her sister proved to have the better judgment.
“Well, he’s just pulled another of his deceitful little tricks, trying to make money.”
“What has he done?”
“He did this: he took Anne’s new novel and sold it to an American publisher—a serialized version, I believe—but he’s advertised the book in a way that implies that the author is Currer Bell—the author of Jane Eyre. He’s been telling everyone that we’re all the same author. That there’s only one of us, and that’s me.”
Emily swatted at the fly buzzing around her face. “That’s nothing new,” she replied, falling back into the cool grass and closing her eyes. “The critics have been speculating about that for months.”
“Yes, the critics have, but our publishers know quite well that we are not the same people, that there are three of us. Mr. Williams and Mr. Smith know that there are three brothers who all write different books and that Currer Bell has only written one. So far. At least that’s what they used to think …”
Charlotte paused to open the collar of her dress and fan herself.
“It’s so hot,” she said. She was losing her temper with Emily, and that was never the way to deal with her. She stood there trying to cool down until Anne came up the hill holding a parasol and an oilcloth under her arm. They spread the oilcloth on the grass, then pulled up their skirts and sat down.
“Can’t you see where this is leading, Emily?” Charlotte began, trying to keep her voice low and calm. “Please do sit up and listen.”
“I can hear quite well with my eyes closed,” she mumbled.
“My publishers got wind of it all, and they think that I’ve written a new book and sold it to someone else. While I’m under contract to them. They’re furious. They demand explanation.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“They need to know that there are three of us.”
“So write to them again.”
“Emily, they need to see us. They need to see three bodies.”
Emily shot upright. “Oh, no,” she warned, in a hotly defensive tone. “I’m not meeting anybody.”
“This is critical. You need to meet Mr. Newby face to face.”
“No, I don’t. It’s Anne’s novel he’s advertising falsely. Anne should go.”
Anne spoke up quietly; she always waited for just the right time to be heard and inevitably trumped the game. “But I am going. I already told Charlotte. I think we must set Newby straight. He’s been devious with us from the start, and I think a surprise visit from his authors is just what he needs. Besides, I’ve never been to London and I should very much like to go. I’m ready to leave today.”
Emily glared at them. It irked her when Anne took Charlotte’s side. “Then go. But you must swear to me that you will never refer to me by name. I shall remain your brother Ellis Bell.” Her gray eyes fixed them with a sharp gaze; it was enough to send a chill through both sisters, even on a sweltering day.
“So you’re not coming?” Anne asked.
“If you go, you don’t need me.”
“Then we’d better get bustling, Anne,” Charlotte said briskly, and she rose and shook out her skirt.
She went directly to her father to make her case. The fact that he did not yet know that Anne had written a novel required Charlotte to shade the truth, which she was quite willing to do. A rational man, he saw the necessity of her making a visit to her publisher accompanied by Anne, and offered to pay their expenses, but Charlotte felt the cost should be her burden. She had already received two hundred pounds for her novel, and it gave her great satisfaction to have her own money to spend.
That very afternoon they sent off their luggage, and after tea they set out to walk the four miles to Keighley. The sky was the color of India ink and thunderclouds were advancing swiftly from the west, but Charlotte would not be deterred. They plodded through a good half hour of stinging rain along the way and arrived at the train station soaked to the skin. In Leeds, Charlotte gladly paid for first-class sleeper tickets on the night train to London, and they managed to dry out their muslin dresses and shawls, although Charlotte didn’t sleep a wink.
They arrived at eight in the morning and without the remotest idea of where to find lodging. They took a cab to the Chapter Coffee House in Paternoster Row, where she and Emily had stayed on their way to Brussels. Charlotte remembered it as being past its prime then, and it had certainly not improved in the six years since.
The coffeeroom downstairs was still a dingy, worn-out place, with heavy beams and a low ceiling. Their room was no better: a washstand stood precariously on feeble legs, a dresser bore the scars of years of careless use, and the wallpaper was faded and peeling. The floor sloped toward two high, narrow windows that looked out onto a forest of soot-blackened chimneys. Charlotte suspected that the room had not been cleaned, or even used, in months. But it had the advantage of being situated in the heart of the old publishing district, and Cornhill was only a few minutes away.
Charlotte leaned toward the mirror above the washstand and studied the face framed by the deep hood of her summer bonnet. She had never liked her looks, and a sleepless night hadn’t improved on her complexion, which tended toward ruddiness and now, after a thorough washing in cold water, seemed to glisten in the morning light. Her eyes were shot with red, and her tiny hands were already trembling.
“Oh, Annie,” she said, tying on the bonnet, “I don’t know how to reconcile myself to myself sometimes. Here we are, away from home, out in the big city on our way to meet our publishers—everything I’ve craved so keenly—but I can’t enjoy it. You know I’ll pay for all this pleasure with a splitting headache in a few hours.”
Anne sat patiently waiting on the bed, already neatly done up. “You’ll feel better after you’ve had breakfast. It will calm your nerves.”
“I couldn’t possibly eat anything.”
“Yes, you can.” She rose to take the ribbon out of Charlotte’s hands and tied a neat knot beneath her chin. “There, how’s that?”
Charlotte turned back to the mirror and glowered at her reflection. “We’re such country bumpkins.”
“Yes, we are, but we happen to be rather famous ones.” She passed Charlotte’s spectacles to her and said cheerfully, “Shall we go, Currer?”
Paternoster Row was a dark and narrow street with gloomy warehouses rising on both sides. More than a century ago, at the request of the eminent publishing houses situated there, posts had been driven into the flagstones at each end to prohibit horse-and-carriage traffic. A queer silence reigned here, not so much that of tranquillity as of decay. Charlotte and Emily gathered up their skirts, picking their way across the flagged street and the trickle of sewage, and h
urried toward the bright, bustling thoroughfare of Cheapside.
On the corner they came upon a driver who was unloading kegs from his wagon, inconveniencing a carriage and provoking a good deal of shouting, so that Anne and Charlotte had to struggle through the crowd that was beginning to form. It was just the sort of thing Charlotte needed, a bit of riotous London to strip away her self-consciousness. From there on, the walk to Cornhill was like an adventure on the high seas; it was only a half mile, but it took them nearly an hour. There was in that festering capital all the excitement she had so keenly missed since Brussels. She had come here once before in the firm belief that her life was just beginning, and today she felt that she was picking up where she had left off. The four years in between Brussels and now were only dreary, empty spaces, an emotional wasteland where she had survived through the richness of her imagination.
No. 65 Cornhill was a large bookseller’s shop, full of young clerks who glanced up curiously as the door opened and two provincial-looking women stepped inside. Charlotte immediately felt the heat of their stares—she knew how she and Anne must appear, in plain silk dresses remade countless times, and retrimmed bonnets. They stood there for a moment, pale-faced and unsure of themselves, setting off a few titters of laughter among the younger lads.
Determined to hide her nervousness and ignore the mocking stares, Charlotte stepped up to the counter. She caught the attention of a clerk and said in a quiet voice, “I’d like to see Mr. Smith, please.”
The lad darted a look at her, wondering what business someone like her might have with Mr. George Smith, but he checked his inclination to ask questions and went off to fetch his employer.
Charlotte and Anne waited for some time on the bench before the boy reappeared.
With a faint air of condescension he said, “Mr. Smith regrets that he is very busy just now, ma’am. He’d like to know who’s asking for him, if you please, ma’am.”
Charlotte replied firmly, “I regret that I am not at liberty to give you our names. Just tell Mr. Smith we’ve come on private business.” Charlotte then lowered her voice and added, with a hint of mystery, “I can assure you, Mr. Smith will want to see us.”
