by Juliet Gael
“It’s a vile book. An insidious attack on the church,” he said with one of his dark scowls.
“I don’t think it’s an attack so much as a defense of those who conscientiously differ from the church and feel it a duty to leave the fold.”
“Her husband is a Unitarian minister. They are heretics,” he glowered.
“But she is such a good woman. I assure you, when you do know her you will feel as others feel. I love and respect her deeply, and would so like for the two of you to get along. I think she may be a little afraid of you—she knows your opinion of her. I believe that’s why she has not yet visited us, despite my invitation.”
He gave a deep sigh of resignation. “I should never wish to be a barrier between you and your friends, my dear. I have said that to you before. But I feel these matters very deeply.” He sulked quietly for a moment, then drew his book back to his nose. “I suppose I can make myself scarce when she’s around.”
She rose and went to him; she took the book out of his hands and sat down on his lap, twining her arms around his neck.
“Darling, you know I could never force a person on you against your will.”
“Perhaps she might visit in the spring—when you would not be confined indoors.” He paused and added grimly, “Without her husband.”
“Yes, that could be easily arranged.”
So Charlotte did not attend the Bradford reading. They were busy with their own preparations for Christmas, and the day flashed by unnoticed.
The season of Advent had always been celebrated reverently and humbly in the parsonage, but this year Charlotte was inspired to add cheerful new touches. With Martha and Hannah’s help, they strung garlands of evergreen over the doors and mantel; they decked the portraits and the old grandfather clock with red holly and green ivy and scented the rooms with oil of cinnamon and cloves.
The kitchen was a hive of activity from morning to night. In addition to the joints and puddings and pies, Charlotte supervised the baking of dozens of spice cakes, which were wrapped in paper and stored in the cellar until Christmas Day, when they would be delivered personally by Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls to the poor. Parishioners walked miles in the cold raw wind to attend concerts in the Haworth church, and there were festive receptions in the parsonage for the bell ringers and singers. The Haworth brass band—all fifteen of them—made their rounds in the village as they did every year, playing their songs and glees, and the musicians were struck by the change that had come over the parsonage. It seemed more brightly lit, and the occupants lighthearted. When the band had finished blasting out the last note of a jubilant “Joy to the World” and Jeremiah, the trumpet player, stepped forward with his open purse, Mrs. Nicholls—flashing a shy, radiant smile—came down the steps and gave him an extra coin.
No ghosts haunted the parsonage that year.
One night several days after Christmas, Charlotte and Arthur sat together in the parlor. The winter wind howled around the house, but they were warm indoors before a blazing fire; a sense of contentment subtle as perfume hung in the room.
Charlotte looked up from her sewing and said, “Do you know that tomorrow we shall have been married all of six months?”
Arthur turned a page of his book and acknowledged the statement with a grunt. He did not smile, but a rosy tint spread through his hard-fixed features.
“You know, if you were not with me, I should be writing just now.”
“Would you?”
“After Jane Eyre, when I owed more books to Cornhill, I was under a good deal of pressure. Now I’m free to write when I have a tale to tell and feel inspired to tell it.”
“Are you so inclined this evening?”
She tilted her head and with a saucy smile said, “Perhaps.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
She reflected for a moment, then put down her sewing and disappeared upstairs. She returned clutching a handful of pages.
“This is something I started last year. Would you like to hear it?”
Closing his book, Arthur propped his stocking-clad feet on the fender. “Read away, my dear.”
Settling down in her chair opposite his, she read him the first few chapters of Emma, the story of a motherless young girl who is abused by the mistress of her boarding school when it is learned that her father is not the wealthy man he had portrayed himself to be and has disappeared without paying her school fees.
When she had finished, she put down the pages and asked him what he thought.
Arthur reflected for a moment. “It’s about a school again. I fear the critics will accuse you of repetition.”
“Oh, I shall alter that. I always begin two or three times before I can please myself.”
After a long hesitation, Arthur said, “My dear, you should not rely solely on my judgment. You know I’m not good at this sort of thing.”
She leaned forward and placed her tiny hand on his leg. “I don’t care. I want to read my work to you. I want to share it with you. Besides, I rarely agree with the opinions of others. Even my publisher.”
“Good. You are the genius. You should do as Genius dictates.”
“That I shall.”
“I suppose writers write what they know.”
“Yes, and I only know schools. And governesses.”
“And clergymen,” he laughed.
She grew serious. “I told you once that writing is an act of conscience for me. I must speak truthfully about human nature. I cannot force or fake a character, and I take them seriously, as I do all of life. My stories are a product of my experience, and if I have not accumulated enough experience to enable me to speak again, may God give me the grace to be dumb.”
A moment passed before he asked her quietly, “Do you think you are finished writing about Brussels?”
After a long, startled silence—waiting until she was sure to have firm control of her voice—she answered, “I believe so. Yes, I’m quite sure of it. I have told the story I wished to tell.”
He nodded and shifted his feet on the fender.
She said, “I imagine that I shall write something quite different the next time.” There was a pause. “Yes. Something quite different.”
The following day Flossy drooped; he would not eat but lay quietly before the fire all day and died silently in the night. It was the only blight on the Christmas season.
Chapter Thirty-three
“I do believe you enjoyed yourself, Mr. Nicholls.”
“I did indeed. Much more so than I had anticipated.”
“You were quite taken with Sir James’s microscope. I thought you’d never come up for air.”
“Fascinating contraption. Should like to have one of those myself.”
“Then I shall buy one for you with the proceeds from my next novel.”
Arthur let loose with one of his great exuberant laughs and stamped on the carriage floor with his boot, waking the dozing driver.
“What’s that, sir?” he called through the window.
“Nothing. Mind your driving.”
“Yes, sir,” the old man muttered. A miserable day to travel, he thought as he hunkered back down in his seat, winding his tobacco-stained scarf around his mouth. The cold drizzle had been picked up by a fierce wind, and now the rain stabbed his eyes like needles. The horses didn’t like it either; they plodded on with their ears battened down and their flanks twitching.
They were jolted as the carriage hit a rut in the frozen road, and Arthur reached out a protective arm to steady Charlotte.
“Are you all right? You’re looking pale.”
“I am feeling a little queasy.”
“You should have eaten before we left.”
“I did, my dear.”
“You nibbled a crust of toast. And you ate nothing the night before.”
“I had no appetite. Which was quite regrettable. Sir James laid on such a fine dinner. He is kind.”
“You were absolutely correct in suspecting there was a motive
behind his invitation.”
“Sir James never does anything without a hidden motive. I suppose he thought if he fawned over you like he does over me that you might change your mind and take the living at Padiham. He just does not understand that anyone could thwart his wishes.”
“Little does he know us.”
“I’m very proud of you, Arthur. How you stand firm.”
He gave another, more subdued laugh, then abruptly fell still, alarmed by the expression on her face.
“My dear, shall we stop the carriage?”
“No, no. It’s too cold,” she said, drawing the carriage rug tighter around her legs. “I’ll be better once we’re on the train.”
Arthur and Patrick were waiting in Patrick’s study when Dr. Ingham came back downstairs. He was new to Haworth, a young surgeon recently licensed, and they were not wholly convinced of his competence. They shot to their feet and greeted him with intense, anxious stares.
“There’s no need for alarm. Her nausea and lack of appetite are both symptomatic.”
There was a brief silence. Patrick faced the doctor in a curiously frozen stance, his hands clasped tightly behind his back and his eyes unblinking.
Arthur appeared dazed. It took him a moment to find his voice, and then he stammered nervously, “Do you mean to confirm …”
“Yes, she is with child,” Dr. Ingham assured him solemnly. “Her illness may be of some duration, perhaps several months, but there is no immediate danger.”
He gave Arthur a firm pat on the back, which loosened a smile from the curate’s face.
“Congratulations, Mr. Nicholls.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” Momentarily, Arthur succumbed to the joy, and he clasped the doctor’s hand and pumped it. “Yes, thank you. This is good news, indeed.” But Patrick stood silent as a sentinel.
Arthur asked, “What can we do for her?”
“There’s little to be done except to wait for time to take its course.”
“Are there any problems we should anticipate?”
Patrick spoke up sharply. “My daughter is nearly thirty-nine, Dr. Ingham. And frail.”
“Yes, indeed, but her age does not necessarily impede a healthy birth. I’ve delivered many a woman older than she of a healthy baby.”
“Her mother died at this very age,” Patrick said morosely, and then he turned away toward the window.
Arthur found her sitting erect on the edge of the bed in her petticoat and chemise, her head down. Strands of her hair had come loose, and her fingers moved quickly, expertly, putting all in order again. She looked up at him with dark, probing eyes. She had been waiting for him.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Odd. It’s nothing I can quite describe. I just feel very queer. Quite unlike myself.”
“The doctor says it will pass,” he said as he cautiously lowered himself onto the bed beside her. He was a little flustered and didn’t quite know how to treat her. He reached for her hand and found it cold.
“We mustn’t speculate, Arthur. It’s very early. We must not get our hopes up.”
“My only hope is for your health.”
“But would it make you happy?”
“If it be God’s will.”
Beneath his cautionary words she sensed a restrained joy.
“It would make you happy, wouldn’t it?”
“Oh, my dear, it would make me very happy indeed,” he said. Momentarily she felt herself swept up in his joy, despite the queasiness and the chills.
“Well, again, we must wait,” she warned. “Things can go wrong.”
“You mustn’t talk like that. You’re sounding like your father.”
“Goodness, I hope I don’t sound like him. He’s all gloom and doom. He’ll have me dead in the grave before long.” She said this with her wry, taut grin, but she seemed to half-believe it herself, and her attempts at cheerfulness gave way to a swell of anxiety. “But I am afraid, Arthur. I can’t say as much to Papa. I’ve always sheltered him from anything that might worry him. But I must tell you.”
“Of course you must.”
“I am afraid.”
“Come here.”
He reached for her. She laid her head against his chest and rested quietly in his arms.
After a while she said, “I must get dressed.”
“Why? Why don’t you rest?”
“I’ve been lying in bed all morning. I have far too much to do.”
She slipped from his embrace and went to take her dress from the back of the chair. Within a few steps she was seized by another wave of nausea.
“Oh no …”
She turned toward the washbasin, but Arthur was already on his feet; he snatched it from the stand, thrusting it into her hands just as she heaved. He held her up while she emptied the meager contents of her stomach into the basin. She strained until her face was damp with sweat, and when the sickness had passed, she crawled onto the bed and lay limp, spent.
He poured a glass of water for her and waited while she washed her teeth.
“It will pass. The doctor promised it will pass.”
He summoned Martha, who came upstairs to clean away the basin and bring a ewer of fresh water.
“Sir, ye needn’t bother yerself with this,” she whispered to him on the way out. “This is woman’s work.”
“I shall tend to her, Martha,” he said with quiet assurance. “We must do everything to make her comfortable. Bring some fresh linens. And tend to the fire. It’s far too cold in here.”
“Aye, sir.”
He stepped to the window and pulled back the curtain. Earlier in the morning the winter sun had risen against a canopy of blue, but now the church tower stood lonely and desolate against a blanket of gray. Snow had begun to fall, stirred by the eddies of wind as it swept through the garden and the tombstones below.
He glanced back at Charlotte. She was resting; the fine fairylike hands lay curled, relaxed, on top of the counterpane. Arthur drew the curtains and went about tidying the room. The dress went back in the armoire; the tiny leather boots fell in line with the other shoes against the wall (both of them would have fit easily into one of Arthur’s boots); the shawls were folded and draped over the footboard. When everything was ordered as Charlotte would have liked it, he moved the chair beside the bed and sat down. When Martha returned she found him deep in prayer.
Once again, her visits to the Nusseys and the Taylors had to be postponed. She wrote, “Don’t conjecture—dear Nell—for it is too soon yet. Keep the matter wholly to yourself. I am rather mortified to lose my good looks and grow thin as I am doing—just when I thought of going to Brookroyd. Papa continues much better—and Arthur is well and flourishing. It is an hourly happiness to me to see how well the two get on together now. There has never been a misunderstanding or wrong word.”
Ellen besieged her friend with frantic pleas to be permitted to visit. Charlotte replied, “I am well tended by my kind husband. The presence of another, even yours, my dear Nell, would only add to my worries. I am too conscious of my duties to be careless of your own comfort, and I am in no condition to be weighted down with concerns. Wait a little. Be patient. All will come well and you can visit in the spring.”
As the weeks advanced, they hoped for an improvement, but the nausea and sickness continued. Mistrusting the inexperienced Ingham, Arthur sent for Dr. Macturk from Bradford, who reassured them once again that her illness was symptomatic of her pregnancy.
Arthur, in his usual manner, tacked toward the practical.
“Is there a particular diet that would help?”
“Make sure she gets as much nourishment as possible. Anything light that she can keep down. Beef tea is good. She is merely suffering what many women suffer in the early stages. It will pass.”
He prescribed draughts, and Ellen and Amelia Taylor sent advice culled from their acquaintances who had suffered the same symptoms in pregnancy, but nothing worked. By February, Arthur and her father ha
d taken up the task of answering her correspondence, for she had become too weak to hold a pen. Tabby, who had been ill since January with severe diarrhea (yet another contagion from Haworth’s foul water supply! Patrick lamented), had been moved to her great-niece’s cottage in the village, since Charlotte could not care for her. With the news of her death several weeks later, Charlotte sank into despair.
A biting cold settled over the entire region, blown in by a steady north wind, and the snowfall exceeded anything they had seen in many years. There were record deaths, and Charlotte lay in her bed listening to the death bells toll just outside her window.
Day after day she battled her fears; she was shocked to examine her feelings and discover ambivalence toward the child that was draining the life from her. Do I resent this child already? Before he’s made his entrance into the world? Dear God, help me. What kind of mother am I?
She confided to Martha, “I’m not good with children. Children have never been fond of me.”
“That’s fool’s talk, ma’am. Why, Mr. Joe Taylor’s little girl takes to ye like family.”
“She finds me odd. I amuse her.”
“It’s different with yer own wee one. That’s what my mother says. Ye’ll see. Just ye wait—when ye’re holdin’ the little bundle in yer arms, ye’ll see. An’ Mr. Nicholls will be a good father.”
“Yes, I think he will be.”
“As good a father as they come, ma’am.”
Charlotte missed Tabby dreadfully. She missed the old servant’s comforting wisdom and nonsense. Her Yorkshire superstitions and love of fairies, her grim, harrowing tales told over the kitchen table on winter nights when the fire burned low, with all the children gathered round, hungering for visions to come alive in their heads.
So many things taken away. The young and the old. The memory keepers. All gone.
In the midst of these bleak thoughts, Arthur came striding into her head, that great whiskered man in black, so solid, so dauntless. Anxieties fled at his approach. She lay in bed with her eyes closed, imagining squat little demons scampering away at the sight of him. Like the washerwomen. In her imagination she smiled.
