7
Charlotte considered the occasion of William Weightman’s lecture in Keighley to be a disaster. The walk to town had been pleasant enough. But the adoration of a large portion of the female audience at the lecture reminded her of the hopelessness of her own situation; the ease with which Weightman fell in with Caroline Dury and Sarah Sugden in the parsonage parlor, while barely saying two words to Charlotte, had been particularly wounding. She was cross for days afterward, and Emily and Anne knew enough to leave her alone. Charlotte felt herself at a crossroads. She decided she would make one more effort. If that did not work, she would once and for all give up the idea of William Weightman (who, she had begun to suspect, did not deserve her loyalty, being incapable of loyalty himself).
Caroline Dury’s musical display had been especially galling. But Charlotte possessed her own gifts. The greatest, she considered, was her ability to draw. Although Branwell had gone so far as to study portraiture with a teacher in an attempt to make a living with his art, Charlotte knew she possessed more natural ability than her brother. She would paint William Weightman’s portrait.
Charlotte made the suggestion as though Weightman would be doing her a favor—she wanted the practice, she said, in a tone of voice she hoped he would consider modest. Weightman agreed at once. Her offer was a touch of genius, Charlotte considered, for it assured that Weightman would be a regular visitor to the parsonage. He would be in close proximity, a captive for conversation. And since Charlotte proposed that the portrait be done as a gift for Agnes Walton, the Appleby sweetheart, she had the means to monitor his attachment to that young woman, and a natural way to inquire, now and then, if another might take pride of place in the curate’s affections. If the report was good or ill, Charlotte would have it first.
She suggested as lengthy a process as possible, a pencil drawing, then pending Weightman’s approval she would move on to oil.
“Must I sit totally still?” Weightman asked.
“Reasonably so,” Charlotte said.
“But may I talk?”
“Of course you may,” Charlotte assented, secretly pleased. “And you may choose your pose. Although I would suggest a profile, since you have a good strong nose and chin. I would also suggest you pose in your academic gown from Durham, for you look well in it.”
Weightman nodded, and the natural blush of his cheeks deepened. “Miss Brontë,” he said, “you would make a fine advertisement for me.”
“I think,” Charlotte said dryly, “you need no help from me, Mr. Weightman. But we shall capture you for posterity.”
She set about the task that would occupy her for much of the spring. She had Weightman to herself. Anne had managed to obtain a new position as governess near York, one she would take up in May. Much time was given to preparation, to sewing the items of apparel she would need, and brushing up on her studies, since her pupils this time would be older girls. And Charlotte timed the session with Weightman when Emily was most likely to be occupied with helping Tabby in the kitchen or tending to the animals. When Tabby groused that Charlotte might help more with chores herself, Charlotte answered that the capture of Mr. Weightman on canvas in the full bloom of his youth was fully as important as dressing a dead chicken. Emily, who was stirring a batter for pudding, kept her head down. But as Charlotte went out the door, Emily said in the strong Yorkshire accent she enjoyed for poking fun, “Sister, perhaps you should paint the dead chicken and dress Mr. Weightman.”
Tabby let out a great whoop and Charlotte froze. She decided not to dignify Emily’s jibe with a response. Emily knew that the blow had been well struck. But Charlotte would not have her nose put out of joint for long, for the sessions with Weightman pleased her immensely. She sat him beside the window and kept a pile of books to set at his shoulder for a backdrop, she fussed with the arrangement of his hair (what a particular joy!), combing it carefully forward and arranging it in delicate feathers around his face. She commented upon the academic stoles he draped over his gown, asking him to remind her which award he had received for one or the other. She had opportunity to learn about the joys of a university education (and to covet it), to discuss points of Scripture or other areas of study as a way to show off her own erudition.
At night, when talking to her sisters, Charlotte passed on what she and Weightman had discussed, as though it was almost as satisfying as experiencing it the first time. She had taken to calling the clergyman “Miss Celia Amelia.” It was an old habit Charlotte picked up at boarding school, where the girls would give feminine names to men who intrigued them so they might talk about them without being reproached by their teachers.
She judged the time did not pass in a burdensome way for Weightman. The only area of discord was her lack of understanding about what Weightman saw as the stringent nature of his religious calling. She tried to be sympathetic, even as she attempted to argue him into a more comfortable notion of what it might mean to be an Anglican clergyman. Upon reflection, on her bed at night, she admitted that what appealed was not William Weightman of Haworth, but the idea of William Weightman ensconced in a well-endowed seat, say, at Cambridge. She dropped broad hints about her father’s stories of the joys of that town and suggested how the curate’s gifts might be employed there. Weightman seemed interested, and yet he did not. At some point he mentioned that his hopes for Agnes Walton were at low ebb. Charlotte sighed, was encouraged, and continued the pleasant task of staring at the profile of William Weightman and re-creating it on canvas.
The weeks passed, the portrait took shape, and the time was coming when the trajectory of all the family’s lives in connection with William Weightman would be changed, and set in the pattern that would continue as long as everyone drew breath. When Emily Brontë looked back upon that spring, her memories were tied up with the church, a kaleidoscope of scenes from Easter to Whitsuntide. She saw Weightman standing before the congregation in his black gown singing in his strong voice, “Christ our Lord is risen today, A-lleluia,” and then sitting with his chin in his hand and listening to her father’s Easter sermon, delivered as usual without notes. At one point, Patrick said, “An especially joyous Easter, this one, the first with my new curate, Mr. Weightman, among us. Already he is beloved in Haworth. And does not the new life of the season have more meaning when one so vital and dedicated is among us?”
Weightman had smiled, nodded modestly, and blushed. Charlotte, who held Emily’s hand in the Brontë pew, pressed it tightly as she shivered with excitement.
A few Sundays later, Emily sat with Anne in the same pew, after everyone else had departed. Anne would leave the next day for her new post as governess to the Robinsons of Thorpe Green. She wanted to linger and pray, but instead began to weep. Emily sat with her arms around her sister, tears coursing down her own cheeks. She anticipated the emptiness of her bed without Anne, the loss of conversation—the most intimate conversation she knew. Then there was her guilt as her sister went out into the world while she stayed contented at Haworth. When she spoke of this, Anne said at once, “No, no. It would be terrible for you to leave. You have tried it before and it kills a part of you, you know it does. And although I am sad, there is also a part of me that wants to go. I want to teach young women to lead useful lives. I want to see how others live, and to meet new people, and to test myself.” Then the tears welled up in her eyes. “But still I shall miss you and I grieve.”
William Weightman stood outside the church along with Patrick, shaking the hands of departing parishioners. When all had dispersed, Patrick took the brief walk through the graveyard to his parsonage dinner. Weightman turned to close the church door. Then he heard sobbing and went inside to investigate. The sisters sat with heads bowed, arms around one another, their heads bathed with light from the opaque windows. Weightman, who knew Anne’s situation, went to sit in the pew beside them. He thought they might ask him to leave, but they did not.
Emily was astonished that Weightman only sat, without inquiring about their distress,
or offering advice or consolation. Once Anne realized the curate had no intention of interfering with her grief, she gave herself the freedom to sob while Emily held her. At last Anne was spent and grew quiet. Weightman sat close, his arm across the back of the pew like a protecting angel.
When Anne had regained her self-control she turned to Weightman. “Thank you,” she said. “It is a comfort you are here.”
He nodded and said, “You leave tomorrow?”
“I do,” Anne replied, her voice now calm. “Although I weep, Mr. Weightman, I do not want you to think I despair. It will be a great adventure.”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “When I left my family in Appleby to go to Tyneside, I wept as well. And yet I knew I took the path God led me upon. So there was sadness but also anticipation.”
Anne smiled so brilliantly that Emily squeezed her shoulder in response. “You are right,” Anne said. “I have such anticipation of how I might mold the two young women I shall teach. They are older girls and of such an impressionable age.” She thought a moment, and then added, “I shall be a month at Thorpe Green, and then what do you suppose? The entire family shall go to Scarborough by the sea for the summer. And I shall accompany them. I have never seen the sea, Mr. Weightman. I do look forward to it!”
“Do you know what?” he replied with equal enthusiasm. “I have a friend from my time at school in Durham who is curate at St. Mary’s Scarborough, serving under the vicar Mr. Millar. His name is George Easton. I shall write to him at once and tell him to look for you.”
“Oh, Mr. Weightman,” Anne said. “It would be so kind.”
Emily sat silent the whole time and watched, and listened. Weightman glanced at her as if to see how she judged his counsel, but did not press her to speak. When they all stood to leave, she simply said, “Thank you, Mr. Weightman. You are our best friend.” He bowed, and they exited the church.
The portrait was finished; Charlotte planned to present it to Weightman at a family dinner in late May after church. Anne was gone to Thorpe Green by then, and had written back to say that though she was homesick, her new situation looked to be far more satisfactory than the last. Her charges were vain and shallow, but sweet and pliable, their father a distant man who did not interfere, their mother a silly woman but easy to contend with. Anne was content, she said, and looking forward to her time at the seashore.
Patrick shared Anne’s letter at the Brontë dinner table, the veiled portrait standing in a place of honor beside the front window. Charlotte picked at her food. When the great moment came, Tabby was called in from the kitchen as a witness. Charlotte stood and unveiled the picture with a flourish. Everyone applauded.
“It is the precise image!” Aunt Branwell exclaimed. “And how distinguished you look, Mr. Weightman.”
“It is a fine painting,” Weightman said. “Even if the subject is not worthy of so much effort from a talented artist,” he added with a nod toward Charlotte.
Charlotte blushed. “I am glad it gives you pleasure,” she murmured.
She was suddenly too shy to ask what he was going to do with it, afraid that the answer would center on Agnes Walton. But of course Emily blundered right in and said, “Shall you give it to your young woman when you go to Appleby? Father has given you time off to travel this summer, has he not?”
“He has,” Weightman said. “But I am not certain when I shall go to Appleby. I would also like to visit South Wales.” When he sensed some explanation was expected, he glanced at Patrick. “There is a young lady whose acquaintance I made while she was visiting relatives in Bradford. So I hope to go to Wales to meet her family.”
“Ah,” Patrick said, “I thought I had often seen a postmark from Wales on your letters when I collected them from the postmaster.”
Weightman nodded. “We have been corresponding a great deal of late.”
He did not notice, but Emily did, that Charlotte had gone pale and cast down her eyes. Nor did she look up or speak a word for the remainder of the meal, or put another morsel of food in her mouth. When a short interval had passed, she stood and said, “I feel ill. Excuse me,” and rushed out. Weightman stood but Emily said, “Never mind, Mr. Weightman, her stomach has been troubling her lately.”
“Has it indeed?” said Aunt Branwell, ever obtuse. “I did not know anything of it, and I share a bed with her.”
“You know Charlotte does not like to complain,” Emily said, and was glad that her aunt said nothing further.
Patrick Brontë invited Weightman to his study to smoke a pipe and talk over parish business. Emily waited until Weightman and her father retired and closed the door behind them. Then she went upstairs. She found that, rather than go to the room she shared with Aunt Branwell, Charlotte had retreated to Emily’s small chamber. She lay stretched across the bed, her face buried in her arms. Emily sat beside her sister and began to rub her back. At last Charlotte turned her head. Emily saw her face was wet with tears.
“I am such a fool,” Charlotte said. “As usual. Why should I think he would love me?”
“Some of us do love you,” Emily said.
“You are not a young man!” Charlotte said sharply.
“There was that young curate who visited a while back,” Emily ventured.
“He was mad!” Charlotte cried, and turned her head away. She breathed heavily for a time, then sat up and pounded the pillow. “What angers me—and mind you, it is myself I am angry at—what angers me is that he is not worth it. Whyever did I think he was? He is vain and will flirt with anyone who wears a skirt. Nor will he care a fig whose feelings he hurts.”
“I think,” Emily said, “you should not blame your judgment. It is easy to see how a woman might admire Mr. Weightman too much.”
“Not a woman of intelligence once she sees how shallow he is!” Charlotte declared. “He is as vain as that ridiculous Sarah Sugden. Miss Celia Amelia. I named him well, did I not? I shall continue to call him so. That way I can laugh at him and he shall not even know it.”
Emily wanted to point out that the silliness seemed all Charlotte’s just then. At last she said, “Sister, he has his good points, which you shall become reacquainted with in time, when you have got over your hurt.”
Charlotte picked up the pillow and tossed it in a disgusted manner. “I hope not. I hope he will not be here that long. He has no business being a clergyman. A man of the cloth should be holy, and sober, and high-minded. Mr. Weightman is nothing of the sort. He is easily pleased and so he thinks everyone else is easily pleased as well. He wants novelty of all sorts, he wants things stirred up. He should never have been a parson, he should not have been.”
Emily bit her tongue. She continued to stay silent when Charlotte cut Weightman on several occasions after, walking away without shaking his hand or speaking after church, even standing up and leaving the kitchen table once when he came in the back door with the dog Robbie in tow. On that occasion Weightman stood awkwardly in the doorway, and then looked at Emily, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“I was going to suggest a walk upon the moors,” he said. “But I think not. Your sister is upset with me.”
Emily saw no sense in pretending the situation was otherwise. “She is,” Emily said. “But it is not for anything you have done, Mr. Weightman.”
“I am glad to hear that,” he said. “I would not give offense to my friends. But even if it is inadvertent, I am sorry for it.” He hesitated. “If I may ask, has it something to do with what I disclosed at dinner on Sunday? About Wales?”
“It does,” Emily acknowledged.
“Ah,” he said. And after a moment, “Perhaps I was remiss in sitting for the portrait. I fear your sister took the time spent as something more than I meant.”
“Do not blame yourself,” Emily said. “It is a tendency of Charlotte’s. She will recover.” Then she sighed. “I am sad enough myself. Keeper and I would enjoy a walk on the moors with you and Robbie. But if Charlotte did not go as well, my aunt would ha
ve a conniption.”
Weightman smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Well…”
After a moment or two of pleasantries, he left to walk on his own. Emily sat, struck so forcefully by her loss that she felt ill. For a moment she thought she might hate Charlotte for what she had ruined in a manner that seemed to Emily casual and selfish. The loss was intensified a few days later when word came from the Widow Ogden that Mr. Weightman was ill.
Patrick Brontë paid a call, and upon his return Emily read the seriousness of the situation. “It is something in the bowels. Pray God it is not cholera,” was all her father said. Cholera had once been known only in Asia, but ten years earlier an epidemic in England and Wales had killed thousands. No one knew what caused the ailment, but it seemed to strike the poor, who were thought to have brought their sufferings upon themselves with their filthy habits. For its capriciousness and sudden onset, there was now no disease more feared.
When Emily mentioned Weightman’s illness to Charlotte, her sister said, “And why does Miss Celia Amelia insist on spending so much time in the poor precincts?” She caught a glimpse of Emily’s face in the mirror, set down the iron with which she had been curling her hair, and said, “I’m sorry. That was unkind. I pray Mr. Weightman will recover.”
“As do I,” Emily said, unable to hide her anger.
“But dear God,” Charlotte added, “why does he want to stay here? Why does Father stay?” She lay back on the bed. “Oh, Emily, I want away.”
The next day, Emily heard from her father that Weightman improved, that he might be up and about by the end of the week.
“Mr. Wheelhouse cannot identify the illness,” Patrick said as he bent and rubbed Keeper’s head. “A miasma of the place, but not the worst, thank God.”
“Mr. Wheelhouse knows nothing,” Emily replied. She kept a sharp eye out for Weightman as the week progressed and was pleased on the Friday to glimpse him, looking pale and disheveled, as he disappeared into the Sunday school building with Robbie in tow.
Emily's Ghost Page 14
