Romancing Miss Bronte

by Juliet Gael

  “Ellen, I’m afraid I may be making a terrible mistake.”

  “In what way?”

  “I may be throwing away something very precious, something that may not ever come along again.”

  “I presume you mean Mr. Nicholls.”

  “Yes.”

  “But your father is against the marriage.”

  “I’m thirty-seven years old. What other chances will I have to marry?”

  “My dear, you are your father’s only stay in his declining age. Your first duty is to him. You must abide by his wishes. If it is our lot to remain single, then we must endure it.”

  “And what shall I do when Papa’s gone? What would be left for me? With no one to love and no one to care for.”

  “Oh, my dear Charlotte, you won’t be alone. We could take a cottage together. By the sea. We could go to Filey, on the cliffs, where Miss Wooler has her cottage. You would write and I could keep house for you.”

  “So, that’s it. We shall be old maids together, till the end.”

  “If it be God’s will.”

  A long silence followed, with only the sounds of cascading water and the wind in the grasses.

  “I had a letter from him.”

  “From Mr. Nicholls?” Ellen’s voice was heavy with disapproval.

  “He heard from Mr. Grant about Papa’s stroke—and that I was ill. He was quite anxious about us.”

  “You didn’t answer, did you?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No.”

  “You had no business opening the letter. You should have returned it.”

  Charlotte remained silent.

  “You’re not possibly taking this courtship seriously, are you?”

  “I should like to have a chance to become better acquainted with him.”

  “But you know him! And you’ve had nothing but scorn for him for years.”

  Charlotte hesitated before confessing, softly, “I’ve not always been fair to him. I have too often exaggerated his faults and ignored his virtues. You know how harshly critical I can be.” She added, with wry grin, “Particularly of curates.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’d like to correspond with him.”

  “You would deceive your father?”

  “Only until I can be sure of my feelings.”

  “Charlotte! I hardly recognize you anymore! After all these years of abiding by your conscience, you would put your own interests before those of your father.”

  “You’re so harsh, Ellen, and so hard with me, and when you talk of principles, you don’t leave me any chance to hope. It’s all so utterly oppressive. It’s all about my duty and my ailing father when, just once, I would have liked you to see Mr. Nicholls in a more encouraging light.”

  “You’re being selfish, and that’s quite unlike you.”

  Charlotte hesitated for a long while. When she spoke, there was an underlying tension in her voice: “Yes, I suppose it’s to everyone’s benefit that I remain single. Yours as well as Papa’s.”

  “Charlotte! What are you implying?”

  “Unless I were to marry someone like George Smith with good social connections. I’m sure no one would object to that match. I should go to London and make all the right kinds of friends, and poor Papa would be shuffled off to lodgings and no one would bat an eye.”

  “If you marry Mr. Nicholls, my dear, I daresay you will have no friends left at all. You always talk about what a bigot he is … well, what would he think of your Mrs. Gaskell? With her Unitarian minister husband?”

  “I would manage it, in time.”

  “And what about Mary Taylor? Outspoken as Mary is! Why, he wouldn’t allow her to set foot in your home!”

  “Mary’s in New Zealand.”

  “And do you think he’ll allow you to correspond with her? Once he takes a look at one of her letters—”

  “I would make sure he doesn’t read them.”

  “May I remind you that he is not old and blind like your father, and he will be much more curious about your life than your father ever was.”

  “Let’s not discuss this anymore, Ellen,” she said bitterly.

  “No,” Ellen answered sharply. “Let’s not.”

  My dear Miss Brontë,

  I have heard from Joseph Grant that you and your father have recovered, and so my prayers—on that score—have been answered.

  I leave Ireland tomorrow and will go to Kirk Smeaton in Yorkshire where I am to take up a small curacy there. I daresay there will be scarcely enough work to distract me. It is a quiet place and sparsely populated.

  I am troubled by a sense of embarrassment as I sit down to write to you again—my letters to my friends and family are generally of the most dry matter. Now I find it is absolutely necessary that I look inside myself and try to give you a portrait of my heart. I feel myself almost childlike before the task—I don’t know the language of love and I am entirely dependent upon you to understand what it is I wish to say.

  I can say this much: knowing I can never see you again, I have tried to forget you, but I cannot. It is a terrifying thing to have the heart tyrannized by one constant idea, which is my love for you.

  I have turned to your novels for comfort. On the pages, I hear your voice and I see you move before my eyes. But then, once the book is put aside, I am faced with a stark, empty reality, and you are not there.

  Forgive me, my dear Miss Brontë, for my outpourings. Only by writing to you am I able to alleviate just a fraction of my suffering. I beg you for just one word, a word of kindness. I saw as much in your eyes on the day we parted. I cling to the hope of having a letter from you. Even a few words, written in your hand, would bring such boundless joy.

  Your devoted

  Arthur Bell Nicholls

  When this letter arrived, Charlotte showed it to Ellen, hoping to engage her sympathy for Mr. Nicholls.

  “I’d like you to read it, Nell. Here,” she said, holding out the letter.

  Ellen was installed in a chair beside the window, working a piece of worsted with long colored threads. Without dropping a stitch, she said airily, “You would make me an accomplice?”

  “I beg you to read it.”

  Ellen put down her tapestry and looked Charlotte straight in the face. “I daresay, I always fancied that Jane Eyre was just a bit of naughty imaginings on your part. I was sure Jane Eyre was not you. Never would you be tempted to such wickedness. Now I’m not so sure. Your mind can be a dangerous thing. I remember when we were schoolgirls and you were so in thrall to your imagination. You recognized the power it had over you and you knew it was not always pure, that your thoughts were sometimes sensational and unhealthy. You used to tell me I was your model of purity and self-denial. Well, I sit here now, as your best friend, urging you to cease this deception.”

  Charlotte’s eyes flashed darkly. Without a word, she folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket.

  The visit bore the strains of their dispute, and Ellen departed from Haworth under a cloud of hurt feelings. Charlotte wrote once, and Ellen replied. It was a wounding reply, full of harsh judgment and stern Calvinistic warnings that Charlotte was losing her soul.

  Their correspondence ceased after that, and Charlotte found herself more adrift than ever before in her life. All those to whom she would have turned were gone. She still looked forward eagerly to the books George and Mr. Williams continued to send, and to letters from admirers and literary acquaintances, but London grew increasingly irrelevant to her daily life and the concerns that now filled her thoughts.

  On the September day when Elizabeth Gaskell was due to arrive, Charlotte was up before dawn. The visit, originally planned for June, had been postponed because of Charlotte’s illness, but Charlotte had taken advantage of the delay to make small improvements to the parsonage. The small Oriental rugs purchased that spring in Leeds had been aired, the new crockery and glassware removed from the paper wrappings and arranged in the china cabinet in the dining room. The ma
hogany table—bought after the publication of Shirley—had been polished to a deep glow, and the warm wood picked up the crimson from the sofa and armchair, which had recently been reupholstered with revenue from her railway dividends. There were new lamps and a new runner for the entry hall. Every inch of the walls and woodwork had been washed, the kitchen stove blackened, the waterspouts and tubs freshly painted white, the counterpanes laundered and ironed. The entire house was scrupulously clean and obsessively tidy. Charlotte had done her best to drive out the bleak austerity and bring a feeling of warmth and snugness to her home.

  Elizabeth Gaskell had never experienced such a wild wind; she had to incline her head and clutch her bonnet as she hurried up the gravel path.

  “My goodness gracious,” she exclaimed, laughing, as she stood in the hallway smoothing down her skirt and brushing her hair out of her face. “I thought I was going to be blown right back to the gate!”

  “My dear Miss Gaskell, come … come inside. I see you’ve been welcomed by our local banshees.”

  “Is the wind always so fierce? And you must call me Lily.”

  “And you must call me Charlotte. I’m afraid it is, at this time of year. Quite terrifying at night, the way it sobs and moans down the chimney, but wonderful if you’re in the mood for ghost stories.”

  “Then we shall have ghost stories,” Lily said with delight.

  “Oh, no,” Charlotte said with a nervous little laugh. “No ghost stories. I’m afraid I’m all too susceptible to those thoughts. While you are here, we shall talk of real-life things.”

  Patrick was his typical quaint self, reminiscing about his Cambridge days and exaggerating his friendship with Lord Palmerston in order to impress their celebrated guest. What did impress Lily Gaskell was the loaded musket on the wall in his study.

  “He’s always fancied firearms,” Charlotte explained later. “When he’s out of spirits he wants me to describe to him all the weapons in Prince Albert’s armory at Windsor—he begged me to visit the place when I was in London last year. I’ve got it all down in my head, all the displays, the names of the arms, the battles …”

  “And does it do the trick?”

  “Inevitably,” Charlotte tittered. “Cheers him immensely.”

  From their first meeting, Charlotte had been captivated by Lily Gaskell. Lily had a queenly presence about her, softened by a good dose of playfulness, but she was brilliant, too. She brought out the best in people. During her visit, their talk wandered off in all directions, like their rambles over the sweeping moors, and there never seemed to be an end to them. Charlotte confided in her without reservation; she spoke freely of her sisters, her brother, her father, and Arthur. Finally, she had found a sympathetic ear.

  “I’ve known him for so many years, but it’s quite a different thing to see him in this light.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “I would just like to have a chance to speak to him.”

  “And you should. I do believe your father is being dreadfully unfair. Is his objection really just a matter of Mr. Nicholls’s income?”

  “That’s really at the heart of it, I believe.”

  “And your own objections?”

  Charlotte hesitated. “Oh, Lily, I would be going against everything in my nature to marry without love. It’s certainly not a brilliant marriage—but I would not be alone anymore, and there would be someone to take care of Papa in his old age.” She added quietly. “I think perhaps it’s time to let go of my dreams.”

  “I’ve been meddling again.”

  It was the first thing Lily said as soon as Katie Winkworth had settled herself on the sofa.

  “Oh my, what have you been up to?”

  “Well, first of all, I did a little spy work. I’m quite proud of myself. I was able to obtain Mr. Nicholls’s address. For Lord Houghton. He’s a great admirer of Charlotte’s. He met her in London once. He’s going to pull a few strings.”

  “What could he possibly do?”

  “Find Mr. Nicholls a good position. Not far from Haworth, if possible. Anything that might improve his standing in her father’s eyes.”

  “Does Miss Brontë know about this?”

  “Absolutely not! And you mustn’t ever breathe a word of it to her or anyone. My head would go rolling, Katie. I know her scruples, and I’m sure it would mean an end to our friendship.” She paused, her eyes swelling with sympathy. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a being so deserving of success and human affection. What she has endured, and yet overcome—her courage and perseverance through the most dreadful personal difficulties—and weathering all of this in utter loneliness, with her few friends always at a distance—and no man on whose steady chest she might rest her head. Can you imagine living like that? Well, I felt compelled to take action. I just cannot sit by and let her be browbeaten into submission by that father of hers.”

  “You weren’t too fond of him, were you?”

  “He was very charming—paid me rather old-fashioned, high-blown compliments—but to tell you the truth, I was afraid of him. I caught him glaring at her over his spectacles a few times, very sternly. Made me know my man. And he talked at her and me, rather than to us. You know how men can be when they really don’t see women but see right through them to the other side.”

  “I know precisely what you mean.”

  Toward the end of November, Charlotte received a letter from George Smith. She had not heard from him in more than a month, and she found the tone of his writing disturbing. It was very much unlike him—vague, with an undercurrent of uneasiness, worded in obscure language with reference to some important step in life. Charlotte was too full of dread to answer him directly, and so she wrote to his mother that very day, discreetly asking about his hints at some impending decision.

  “If he is going to take an important step, would it likely be conducive to his happiness and welfare?” she wrote, unable to put her fears into more direct language.

  Within a few days she had a reply from Mrs. Smith, stating that George was very well and very happy, that he was indeed thinking of taking a very important step in life, one with every prospect of happiness.

  “I am very thankful and pleased about it,” Mrs. Smith wrote, “and I am sure he will—as soon as it is quite settled—enter into all the particulars with you. I have no doubt in my own mind that all will be as his best friends could wish, and you will soon hear from him.”

  Charlotte had never allowed herself to think about this possibility, although she had spent many a day and evening with George, watching him eye pretty women. But the reality struck her with devastating violence, ripping every shred of confidence from her heart. She was consumed with jealousy for this unknown woman, undoubtedly some pretty little Polly-like creature from a socially connected family. She thought again of Arthur’s mediocrity, and how her expectations had been brought so low.

  The following day Charlotte boxed up the latest books that Cornhill had lent her and sent them back to Mr. Williams. Along with her thanks, she added, “Do not trouble yourself to select or send any more books. These courtesies must cease someday—and I would rather give them up than wear them out.”

  Within a few days, she received a letter from George; he was formally engaged to a Miss Elizabeth Blakeway. In his own delirium of love, he could perhaps be forgiven for his enthusiasm, pronouncing himself the most fortunate man in the world.

  Charlotte replied:

  My dear Sir,

  In great happiness, as in great grief, words of sympathy should be few. Accept my meed of congratulation—and believe me

  Sincerely yours

  C. Brontë

  She read through her note. It was cold, stern, and unworthy of the man who had treated her so graciously, but she did not have the heart to write him the congratulations he truly deserved. This was the best she could muster.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  In January, Arthur made an unannounced visit to the district, stopping at Oxenhope with the Gra
nts and dispatching a note to Charlotte. Charlotte took the note to her father and asked permission to see him. She confessed that she had been corresponding with Arthur since September and that it was tearing her apart to conceal this from him. They had a terrible row, so loud that even deaf old Tabby could hear them; the servants hadn’t heard that kind of shouting in the house since before Branwell’s death. They had certainly never heard the old parson speak like that to his daughter.

  But this time Charlotte stood up to him. She insisted that she would see him, whether he approved or not.

  “Father, look at me,” Charlotte said with heated determination. “I’m not a girl, not even a young woman anymore. I never was pretty and now I’m ugly. What is there to attract a man? It certainly isn’t money. At your death I shall have three hundred pounds along with the little I’ve earned myself—do you honestly think there are other men who would want me? Men who would serve eight long years in a place like this for a stunted little spinsterish clergyman’s daughter?”

  When Charlotte came storming out of the parlor, Martha waited a few minutes, then tiptoed upstairs and pressed her ear to the bedroom door.

  “Why, she’s pacin’ the floor an’ mumblin’ to ’erself like a madwoman. I think I’ve never seen the mistress so angry!” Martha told Tabby when she came back down.

  Tabby was busy mopping the floor in the back kitchen. Her head wobbled back and forth on her shoulders but Martha couldn’t tell if she meant anything by it.

  Charlotte’s reply was hand-delivered to Arthur over breakfast. He had a forkful of ham poised in midair when the servant entered, and he lowered it back to his plate and took the envelope like a man awaiting a death sentence. Life seemed to visibly drain from him, every nerve in his face, the broad muscular shoulders, all of it emptied of vitality. He hesitated, dabbed at his mouth and whiskers with the napkin, then snapped open the seal. As he unfolded the page, his hand trembled.

  Sarah Grant sat across from him stirring sugar into her tea, and her heart went out to him. She shot an anxious glance at her husband, but Joseph Grant was knuckle-deep in his toast and scrambled eggs and serenely oblivious to pounding hearts and the drama at hand.