Romancing Miss Bronte

by Juliet Gael

  Sarah leaned forward and whispered to Arthur, “I do hope it’s good news.”

  She couldn’t tell at first—his face froze momentarily while his eyes scanned and rescanned the words.

  “She will see me,” he murmured in disbelief. “She will see me. Today. I must go immediately.”

  “Oh, but you must finish your breakfast,” Sarah declared.

  Arthur rose so quickly that he caught the tablecloth with his knees and dragged it with him, jerking Mr. Grant’s plate right out from under him.

  “What the deuce!” he started. “Must you be so clumsy, Nicholls?”

  “She’s consented to see me, at last … after a year! A full year I’ve waited! Do you realize? … Why, there might be a chance after all.”

  “Settle down, Nicholls. Get a grip on yourself. Say, you’re not leaving that ham, are you?”

  The servant was sent to fetch Arthur’s coat and hat, and Sarah saw him to the door.

  “Do be careful out there; it’s quite cold, you know. And the wind is so sharp. Ah, here’s Mary with your coat. Do bundle up. Where’s your neck scarf?”

  As he was leaving, she stopped him with a gentle hand.

  “Mr. Nicholls,” she said in that twinkling way of hers, “if you would allow me?” She reached up and plucked a crumb from his beard.

  “There,” she said with a pleased smile. “Now you’re presentable.”

  She watched from the dining room window as he bowled down the steps. He slipped on the ice, regained his balance, and then barreled down the lane with the icy wind at his back and a mighty fire in his heart.

  Tears stung Sarah’s eyes, but she blotted them away so that Joseph wouldn’t accuse her of sentimentality.

  She straightened the tablecloth, then sat back down. Joseph was still reading the paper.

  “He’s lost so much weight,” Sarah sighed.

  Joseph shot a frown at Arthur’s plate. “Pass me that ham.”

  “Here, dear.”

  “No need to waste it.”

  “Don’t you think he has?”

  “What?”

  “Lost weight.”

  Joseph had his mouth full and didn’t bother to answer.

  “I’d say he’s dropped at least a stone. His clothes just hang on him. And his face is much thinner.” She set down her teacup and stared dreamily out the window, her chin resting on her hand. “I daresay, I’ve never seen a man so lovesick. I didn’t know men ever felt like that.”

  Joseph knew better than to follow her into that discussion. He made a lot of noise with his newspaper and kept his head down.

  Arthur stood in the hallway, covered from head to toe in a white dusting of snow. The house was deadly silent except for the ticking of the old clock on the landing and the sound of Flossy whining somewhere behind a closed door. Then he caught the faintest rustle of silk, a whisper, and she emerged from the kitchen with Martha just behind.

  It was his first glimpse of her in nine months. She seemed even more delicate than ever, her pale face strained and her great brown eyes full of alarm.

  “My note said this afternoon, Mr. Nicholls,” she said in a low voice.

  Arthur was flustered. Unable to speak anything but the truth, he blurted through numb lips, “I apologize. I was afraid you might change your mind, or there would be some hindrance.”

  “Papa’s going out to a meeting after lunch. I thought it would be better to meet when he was away.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “I can go down to the Bull and wait—”

  “For five hours? Don’t be silly. You must be frozen from your walk. Please, do come in.”

  In the dining room, Charlotte looked on as he passed his hat to Martha and removed his cloak. He smelled of damp wool and clean wind, and when he drew off his gloves Charlotte noticed his hands, rugged, stiff from the cold.

  “Where’s Keeper?” he asked, when Martha had closed the door.

  “He died last autumn. In his sleep. We buried him in the garden.”

  The expression on Arthur’s face reminded her how much he had cared for the old dog. “Your father must be very sad.”

  “Yes. He’s talking about getting another dog, to keep Flossy company, he says, but it’s really for himself.”

  Arthur stood awkwardly in her presence, his hands clasped stiffly behind his back. With a sweeping glance, he took in the surroundings, the old familiar room.

  “You’ve put up curtains,” he exclaimed.

  “Yes. Papa was quite resistant at first. Change is quite difficult for him at his age, and the amenities of life never held any attraction for him.”

  “You’ve done well here, Miss Brontë. I like the changes. Very warm and snug.”

  “Most of it was done before you left.”

  “That may be so, but I see it after a long absence.” He was battling with his restraint, feeling the need to say much when it was not in his nature. “I have missed this place.”

  Her head barely reached his shoulder, and for the first time in his presence, alone like this, her thoughts sped to the possibility of intimacy with him. His strong, whiskered face was explored in a new light, the line of his lips examined now for hints of sexuality. Disturbing thoughts that she could not repress. It was far too soon for that.

  “Please, come warm yourself.”

  She led him to the hearth. The fire had burned down and she reached for the coal scuttle.

  “Let me do that,” he insisted, taking it from her. He scattered a few coals onto the glowing embers, nudged them around with the poker. It was good to find something physical to occupy his hands, and the heat eased the nervous tension in his chest.

  “You said in your last letter that your father has had a good winter.”

  “Yes, he has,” she said. “No bronchitis, I’m pleased to say.”

  “And his eyesight?”

  “It’s still very cloudy, but he sees well enough to get around.”

  He wanted to talk about her—about them—but he didn’t know how to get there. Nevertheless, for now, he was in her presence, alone, for the first time. She stood with her head tilted up at him, her hands folded across the front of her dress. Trim and neat, and ever so fragile.

  “Oh, Miss Brontë,” he blurted in a near whisper, “do you think you could love me and be my wife?”

  There they were. The very words she had longed to hear since girlhood when dreams of romance had filled her mind. Spoken with all the intensity and passion she had hoped to inspire in a man. But this was not the man she wanted.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Please, don’t tell me you brought me this far only to reject me once again.”

  “It’s my father—”

  “I am all too aware of the obstacles in my path, but all I need is the one thing you continue to withhold from me, a promise of your affection.”

  “You have my esteem and my regard. You have shown yourself true and constant, and I know your principles to be beyond reproach. You are a good man. But—”

  “I beg of you, say nothing to discourage me—first let me speak.” And to silence her, he reached for her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it warmly.

  “I often find it difficult to believe that a delicate creature like you might ever want any part of a great whiskered fellow like myself. I know you are a brilliant woman, with great intellectual gifts—and I admire you all the more for these talents. But when I think of you—and I think of you every moment—I never see you in the light of genius and fame. I think of you as fragile and vulnerable, and easily wounded. I cannot bear the thought of seeing you harmed, in any way, by any person.”

  He pressed her hand to his chest. “I might wish that you would love and worship me with all your heart, but I’m not your Rochester. I see that quite clearly. And yet, I can confidently avow that I love you far too well, far more than any other mortal. If you could only be content with mortal love—stripped of all delusion.”

  Through the thic
kness of his coat she could feel his pounding heart.

  “There would be no surprises between us,” he went on. “You know my deep-rooted convictions and my conscience. You’ve witnessed my devotion to my duties. You know what your role as my wife would be.”

  “I do.”

  With a sudden racket, the door flew open, startling them both. Charlotte recoiled, snatching her hand from Arthur’s chest. Her father filled the doorway—a crusty, unshaven old man in his shabby slippers and old-fashioned neckcloth, trembling with bile and bitterness.

  “My dear Mr. Nicholls, sir,” he began, drawing out the words with exquisite sarcasm, “the next time you are invited to my home—if there is a next time, which I fervently hope there will not be—you would be so courteous as to arrive at the designated hour.”

  Charlotte glanced anxiously at Arthur. His features had hardened into a scowl.

  Arthur held his tongue, and the two men glared at each other in mutual contempt.

  “I see you do not have the manners to apologize,” Patrick snapped.

  “He has apologized to me,” Charlotte interrupted.

  “Well, it’s quite inconvenient to have him here right now, because I’m not feeling well. Not well at all.”

  Her first inclination was always to coddle him, but she would not—not in Arthur’s presence.

  “I’m not well, Charlotte,” he repeated peevishly. “I’m feverish—”

  “If you would go to bed, Papa, I’ll send Martha up.”

  Flossy, who had managed to escape from the parlor, wormed his way around Patrick’s legs and trotted up to Arthur. Arthur’s face lit up with a smile and he bent down to scratch the dog’s ears.

  “Flossy, my old friend.”

  “Come away, Flossy,” Patrick commanded roughly, but the dog was licking Arthur’s hand.

  “Flossy!” he boomed. “Come!”

  Puzzled by the harsh tone of his master’s voice, the dog trotted back with his tail low and sat obediently.

  Patrick scowled down at the cowed dog. “So, you’ve gone traitor on me as well, have you? A whole house full of traitors!”

  Turning stiffly, he closed the door with a bang that startled the poor dog and sent him scrambling beneath the dining room table.

  The noise sent a jolt through her head, and Charlotte pressed her hand to her temple.

  “You have a headache, don’t you?” Arthur said, his voice grave with concern.

  “Since this morning. Now it’s pounding.”

  “I thought as much when I first saw you. You looked pale.” He reached for her arm to steady her. “Here, come sit down.”

  He led her to the sofa.

  “Would you rather I go?” he asked.

  “No, Arthur,” she said, lifting her dull eyes to his. “Don’t go, not now. We’ve paid a high price for this time together.”

  “I’ll call Martha. You need a cool compress.”

  “I imagine she’s tending Papa.”

  “Then I’ll fetch it myself.”

  He returned a few moments later, bearing a basin of cold water and a cloth.

  He remained with her in the room that morning, sitting in the armchair quietly reading a paper while Charlotte reclined on the sofa. From time to time he would put down the paper and step softly to her side. He would freshen the cloth and lay it gently over her eyes.

  “Arthur,” she whispered, “if you would prefer to leave …”

  “I would prefer to remain by your side forever, in sickness and in health.”

  She lifted the cloth and, with blurred vision, tried to fix her eyes on his face.

  “I can’t see you, but I think I heard a bit of levity in your voice.”

  “Yes, you did,” he smiled. “But hush now.” He resumed his seat near the fire. “Not a word more until you’re better.”

  And so, Arthur courted Charlotte. He remained in Oxenhope for ten days and visited the parsonage with the same rigorous devotion with which he had tended his parish duties. Punctual as clockwork, defying driving hail and numbing wind, he set off each day on the footpath to Haworth and trudged across fields now blanketed in white, arriving on Charlotte’s doorstep with astonishing precision. While Patrick—walled up behind his newspapers and his politics—stewed silently in his parlor, Arthur and Charlotte closed themselves in the crimson-toned dining room, with all its memories, for there was nowhere else they could go.

  On occasion Patrick would burst into the room with some grievance or another, but Arthur’s happiness trumped every indignation and every cruel word. Now that he had Charlotte all to himself, his attitude softened and he tolerated the old reverend’s irascibility with good-humored equanimity. His gloominess gave way to laughter and small gestures of affection. His eyes, when gazing down at her, reminded her of the way she had felt when she had once loved deeply.

  Charlotte had always known that Arthur lacked the intellectual power to seduce her mind, and she was acutely aware of the limitations of their conversations. Arthur’s thoughts never strayed far from his clerical duties and the provincial activities that filled his days. Listening to his earnest chatter, she sometimes found herself escaping mentally to more stimulating places, to lively literary salons or warm nights in a Brussels garden. Sometimes the memories would rise up so vividly that her hands would falter, the clicking needles would fall silent, and Arthur would pause.

  “What are you thinking, my dear?” he would ask. “You seem far away.”

  “I’m listening to you, Arthur,” she would answer with a smile. “Do go on. You were telling how you ran into Mr. Sowden’s brother in York. What a pleasant coincidence.”

  At times she stole looks at him through her spectacles, and try as she might, there was never that glow, that rose-tinted vision, that heat. All she felt was a sort of dull gratitude and a sense that she had run out of dreams to dream.

  So she brightened her thoughts with memories in order to stir a little excitement into the moment. Into the room where she sat, with the dog and her knitting and Arthur.

  With each passing day Arthur settled more and more comfortably into the framework of her life. He showed himself eager to reassure her that she was not marrying down, as her father would have her believe.

  “Cuba House is a fine country manor. I should like to take you there. On our honeymoon.”

  Charlotte sat knitting by the fire, her feet on a stool, and she tossed a stern look at him over her spectacles. “I don’t recall having accepted your proposal.”

  “But you will.”

  “I have made no promise.”

  “But you will.” He rose from his chair and stood before the grate, stroking his whiskers. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I had a surprise visit from Lord Houghton several months back.”

  Charlotte looked up, curious. “Lord Houghton?”

  “He’s a great admirer of yours. Claims to have met you in London.”

  “Yes. At Thackeray’s lecture. He invited me to his home on several occasions, but I declined.”

  “Well, he came on a most unusual mission. He offered me two positions at his disposal, one in Scotland, the other Lancashire. Both of them very generous. I daresay I was puzzled by his interest in me.”

  “Scotland? What a wonderful opportunity for you, Arthur.”

  “Of course I refused them both. I would not have been able to come back to you.”

  She was silent for a moment, and then asked in a quiet voice, “So you would return? You would come back to serve here in Haworth?”

  “In an instant.”

  “After all Papa’s cruelty? You would forgive him?”

  “For all the past injustices and all the future ones to come.”

  Still with her nose buried in her knitting, she said, “Tell me, Arthur, if we were to marry, would you be content to live here, in this house, with my father?”

  A long silence, with only the sound of the needles clicking and the wind rattling the panes.

  “Put down your work, Ch
arlotte, and look at me. Raise your head.”

  At this command from Arthur, something thrilled in her, the resonant echoes of another voice she had not heard in years.

  Willingly, she obeyed.

  “I’m not a man of empty words. What I pledge, I will fulfill. I know your worries all too well, and you know my faults—and fraud is not one of them. We’ll live here and care for your father until the end of his days, together, as husband and wife. He need never worry about going into lodgings or being abandoned by his only surviving child. You see, I love you, my dear.”

  His eyes held hers with firmness.

  One evening several days after Arthur had returned to Kirk Smeaton, Charlotte rapped on her father’s door. She stood before him with trembling hands folded at her waist and told him she had been heartily encouraged by all she had learned about Arthur. That she was inclined to esteem and affection, if not love.

  “A curate,” he said with contempt. “After all the fame you’ve achieved, you’d marry this poor curate without a penny to his name.”

  “Yes, Papa, I must marry a curate if I marry at all. But I would never marry just any curate. It would have to be your curate. And not merely your curate, but one who lives in the house with you, for I cannot leave you.”

  Martha, who was listening at the door, heard a commotion: the sound of a chair scraping, then a thud, a metal clang, something breaking.

  “Live in my house? My house? Never!” he barked. “Never will I have another man in my house!”

  The door flew open and Martha scurried to safety. Patrick stormed out and up to his bedroom, slamming the door. Martha rushed into the parlor, wide-eyed with fright.

  “Miss! Are ye all right?”

  Charlotte sat slumped in a chair in the corner like a rag doll, her forehead pressed into one hand. She lifted red-rimmed eyes to Martha.

  “He kicked over his spittoon. It’ll need to be mopped up. And there’s a broken pipe on the floor over there.”

  For two days Patrick would not speak to his daughter. He shut her out of his study and took his tea alone; passing her in the hall, he treated her as if she did not exist. This coldness from him was more effective than all his tired ranting. She had been waging an exhaustive war for something she wasn’t sure she wanted, and she could no longer sustain the effort. Emotionally drained, she retreated to bed with a pounding headache and vomited up everything Martha brought her to eat. Not once did her father look in on her.