The Crimes of Charlotte Bronte

by James Tully

  He died on the 10th of August, 1855, when he was but 51 years old. The Doctor said he died of ‘dust in his lungs’, and that was hardly surprising because of his work. His going hit us all very hard indeed for he was a very gentle and fair man, and always heard us out and, even though Mother gave us hard smacks from time to time, he never laid his hand upon us – not like most of the fathers in Haworth who seemed to be very heavy-handed. But that was only a part of it for he was a man who was very much above the others in the village and looked up to by most. For a start, he had had a very good schooling and had more books than I have ever seen outside of the Parsonage. Even after me and my sisters had left school he took it upon himself to give us lessons, and made sure that we could read better than any of the other children.

  I had never really thought of him properly until I saw him lying there in his coffin, and then I was so overcome that I just burst out crying and I sobbed so much that it seemed as if my tears had been bottled up for years.

  Oddly enough, Mother showed little of what I knew she must be feeling, and I put that down to how worried she must have been about money, and I am so glad now that I was able to help her with that. Father’s younger brother William took over his job as Sexton, and I know that he helped Mother from time to time as best he could, even though he was married and had 2 young lads of his own.

  Needless to say, the funeral was a very sad affair, but we were all surprised by the number of folk who turned up, which was far more than for any of the Brontë funerals, due, in part, to the many Freemasons who came, some of them from Lodges quite a way away. Mother was overcome by the number who spoke to her and shook her hand, especially as some of them were far above our station in life.

  Once I got over Father’s death a bit, I think that the rest of that year of 1855 was the happiest time of my life, especially as everything had been so awful at the start of the year with me so full of troubles of different sorts. Even after Madam was dead I had thought that Mr Nicholls might leave Haworth and, though he told me he would like to stay, I knew that Mr Brontë did not like him and I had wondered if he would be told to go.

  Nothing happened, though, and we all settled down to a life that, after a few months, seemed as if it had always been the same. If anything, Mr Nicholls was more loving towards me than he had ever been. He was always putting his arm around me or holding my hand, and our lovemaking just got better and better now that we could be together longer and there was no need to watch out for Madam or anyone else coming. I still felt that it was grand to share a bed with Mr Nicholls for a whole night, instead of just a short time for making love, and at those times I felt that we were really together. Sometimes I would awaken very early and just lay there looking at him sleeping, with his hair all anyhow and, the beard apart, looking quite like a young lad. At times like that I often wondered what was in store for us both, and how things would end up – but then I put such thoughts from me and just took enjoyment from life as it was at each moment.

  One moment when I was more than pleased, though, was when Mr Nicholls came to me one day and gave me 10 gold sovereigns that he had put in a little leather bag with a drawstring. Laughing, he said that Madam’s Will had gone through all right, and the money in the bag was my ‘witness fee’. It was the most money I had ever had all at one time in the whole of my life, and I laughed as well when I recalled how I had dithered before signing my name. The trouble was, I did not know what to do with it there and then. Mr Nicholls offered to put it in a bank for me, but I was not having that. I did not trust banks, and in any case I would have been afeared to go into one. I did not want my family to know about it either, because although I knew I had done nothing wrong I was sure that they would think I had. It would have been nice to have bought myself some things, but I dared not do that because that would also have brought questions that I was better without. In the end I hid them away safely with Miss Anne’s book, and it was a little nest-egg that gave me great comfort to have by me.

  Mr Nicholls was also very free in giving me little sums of money whenever I wanted to buy things for the house. Mind you, I think he got it from Mr Brontë in the first place, but whoever it came from I was able to replace many things that had served their time and get others to bring a little brightness to the place.

  It was about that time, as I recall, that Mr Nicholls spoke to me about Miss Nussey who, it seemed, had written to him saying that she thought that Mrs Gaskell should write down the story of Madam’s life. That was a good one, I thought, seeing as how most folk never knew what she was really like – but I let Mr Nicholls go on. Anyway, Mr Nicholls had written back, and told her that him and Mr Brontë did not agree with what she had said.

  Afterwards, though, Mr Brontë had managed to read her letter for himself, and he had then told Mr Nicholls that he had changed his mind, and that he would write to Mrs Gaskell. Well, Mr Nicholls had not been very pleased about that, and he had taken the old man to task about it, saying that Madam had been his wife, and it was not Mr Brontë’s place to agree or disagree.

  Seemingly they had had quite a few hard words about it, but in the end Mr Nicholls had realized that he could not stop the old man from writing, and in any case he had come round to his way of thinking. There could be quite a lot of money in such a book – and that would rightfully come to him – and also it might give him the chance to get his hands on the letters that Madam had written to Miss Nussey that he had not seen. He knew that Madam had been able to get some out of the Parsonage when she was ill, and there were also others that he thought might show him up if folk got to see them.

  He had already been in a good mood for quite a while by then, but the prospect of getting some money and having the letters back put Mr Nicholls in even better spirits, and in fact he was far happier than I had ever seen him, and it warmed my heart to have him so and to hear his laughter.

  His good spirits also made him far more lively, and he gave much more time to his Church duties and was pleasant to all. To my surprise, he seemed even to have warmed to Mr Brontë, and would spend hours with him reading to him and humouring his every fancy. That was something that I could not understand at all, for each had used such harsh words about the other in the past that I had never thought to see them in company together as they were, let alone seeming to get on so well.

  By then, though, I should have known Mr Nicholls well enough to have seen that there was always a good reason for everything he did, and such proved to be the case with Mr Brontë. Within what I recall as being only a short time after Madam had died, Mr Nicholls told me one night, with a great smile on his face, that somehow he had got the old man to make a new Will, and that almost everything would come to him!

  I looked at him with an even bigger smile on my face, for I was quite sure that he was pulling my leg. Being civil with each other was a marvel in itself, so I just could not believe that Mr Brontë would ever leave all his things to Mr Nicholls. Somehow, though, Mr Nicholls had managed to get him to do so, and he showed me the Will, and then I was even more surprised because I saw that I was to get £30 when the time came! Mr Nicholls pointed that out to me, and said that it was him who had told Mr Brontë that I should have something – but I was not sure that that was true, for Mr Nicholls would say anything that suited him, and I knew full well that Mr Brontë had always had a soft spot for me. Even so, I gave every sign of believing him, and in ways that I knew would please him.

  Things settled down again after that, and we got into a way of living that was very pleasing to me and, I think, Mr Nicholls, but I do not think that Mr Brontë was very happy. Mr Nicholls kept as many people as possible away from the Parsonage so that Mr Brontë hardly saw anyone else save me. I was as kind to him as I could be, for I had always liked him and, as I have said, I think he always felt something for me as well. Whenever possible, I would sit and talk to him about the old days and that would bring back memories to him and we would enjoy a laugh together. I also saw to it that he had all the li
ttle treats that he liked so much, as they seemed to mean so much more to him the older he got. Even so, there were times when he told me that he felt as if he was in gaol, and that he had never thought he would ever come to such a pass. What surprised me, though, was that he would sometimes speak against Mr Nicholls just as he always had, and that made me wonder all the more why he had signed the new Will.

  He cheered up a lot, though, when Mrs Gaskell came to see him and Mr Nicholls about writing the book about Madam. To my surprise, Mr Nicholls was very forthcoming to her. I knew that he saw that there was money in the book for him, but even so I was not expecting him to put himself out quite so much. Then she said she wanted to talk to me, and Mr Nicholls told me that I could but that I should watch my words. Well, that was easier said than done, for she kept on about so many different things, but I was careful and more or less told her what she seemed to want to hear.

  As for me and Mr Nicholls – well, it was a time of such happiness for me, and we carried on, more or less, as a married couple when no one was about. There was never any mention of us really getting wed though, and although that was a secret dream that I still had I was more than content with the way things were for the time being, even though others seemed very put out.

  I had always thought that folk would start talking about us sooner or later, and I would not be at all surprised if there had not been a few nods and winks long before that, but I had not realized just how much gossip was really going on until I was told about it by Mother.

  Looking very stern, she took me to one side one evening when I went down and said that she thought that we should have a talk, and that we should walk out so that we could be on our own. That made me wonder even more about what seemed to be bothering her, but we put on our coats and bonnets without another word and walked along the lane towards Change Gate. After a while she began speaking, very slowly, and then I learned what was worrying her.

  I had known that Father had always been against Mr Nicholls and I think that, like some others, he had thought that there was something going on between us long before it really was. Now, though, from what Mother told me, it seemed as if he had really known something, and I wondered who had been talking.

  Anyway, Mother said that Father had not thought it right that I should be living alone in the Parsonage with Mr Nicholls, and that he had been going to have a word with me but then he was taken so ill. Seemingly, though, it had stayed on his mind and, towards the end, he had made Mother promise that she would speak to me. She had told him that she would, but had put it off and put it off, but now, though, folk were talking all the more and she just thought that I should know of it and, in view of what Father had thought, that I should tell her what I was going to do about it.

  Well, she had quite caught me on the hop, and I suppose it was because I felt so guilty that I had been getting more and more angry the longer she went on. I felt sorry for her, for she was only doing what she thought was right, but she was the nearest one to hand and so all my anger spilled out on her. I said that for one thing I was not alone with Mr Nicholls – Mr Brontë was there – and in any case Haworth folk would make tittle-tattle about aught, as she well knew. For my part, I told her, I could not see what was wrong with living with 2 clergymen, and if folk had anything to say they should say it to them, or the Church Council or to my face, instead of gossiping behind our backs.

  Mother seemed a bit put out by the way I had turned on her and she started to get cross with me back. She said that that was all very well and good to say, but I knew they never would, and Father had thought there was something to it all anyway, and he had had the good name of the family to think about, especially with him being Sexton and all, and he had been fed-up with the sly digs. Now that really got me going. I said that the good name of the family had never seemed to bother him when he was carousing with his cronies at the Lodge, or in the bars of the public houses, nor at those times when he had had to be brought home because he could not manage on his own. In any case, I was 28 years of age, and I would do as I wished. On top of that, I pointed out that I was taking good money into the house now, and if I left the Parsonage where was I to go to get so much, because I certainly was not going into a mill nor moving away into service with another family.

  Mother was very quiet when I finished and when I looked at her I saw she had tears in her eyes and I knew I had gone too far. Then, in her soft voice, she said that I should know that Father and her had only been thinking of me and my good, and she thought I should say ‘sorry’ for what I had said about him and for how I had spoken to her. That I did, and readily, for I had said it all in temper and had wished the words back as soon as they were out, and I gave her a little hug and a kiss and we made up.

  As for the future, Mother told me that she had kept her promise to Father and said her piece, now on my own head be it. However, she went on to tell me what I already knew – that Father had disliked Mr Nicholls, or ‘that black-hearted Irishman’ as he had called him, on sight – and she warned me that if I had the notion that he would make an honest woman of me one day then I was a dunderhead. That made me go very red, but I let it pass and no more was said of the matter.

  Something of our talk must have rankled with Mother, though – unless she did it just out of concern for me and my health – but the next thing I knew she had been to Mr Brontë behind my back and arranged for my sister Eliza to ‘give me a hand’ as she put it.

  I was not at all pleased about that. Not that I minded having some more help, especially from Eliza as she was but 4 years younger than me, and we had always been good friends. No, it was because I thought she had been put there just to stop the talk, and probably in the hope that she would keep an eye on me and Mr Nicholls as well. Another thing that did not please me was when I found out, quite by chance, that our Eliza had been taken on at the same pay as me. By then I was getting 3/10d a week, after all the years I had been there and all that I had done for the Brontës. That was bad enough, but to have our Eliza coming in new and getting the same made me very cross – but not with her, because I was glad for her sake. I did speak to Mr Nicholls about it though, but he said to leave things be and that he would make sure that I did not lose out in the end, so I said naught more to anyone.

  Of course, I also told him what Mother had had to say, but it did not seem to bother him at all. He said that if the people of Haworth had nothing to gossip about they would make something up, so we might as well be hanged for sheep as lambs and I agreed – although we were always more than careful when Eliza was about for I was not that sure of her.

  I have said that Mr Nicholls was not bothered about any talk there might be, and that was in keeping with his general manner at that time for naught seemed to put him out, but then, very soon after, I saw him in such a temper as I had never seen even in his worst times with Madam.

  As I remember it, I was working in the kitchen when he came storming in with a face so black with anger that I did not know what to say. He said he wanted to talk to me and that I should come to his study straightaway, and with that he stormed off. Eliza was with me at the time and she asked me what was wrong, but I did not know, and had to say so, as I hurried after him wondering if I was at fault somehow.

  When I got to his room he snapped at me to shut the door and then, in a low voice but one that was full of rage, he began to pour out such words as a clergyman should not, to my mind, have even known of. I sat down in alarm, and just let it all go over me until I could get some sense out of him. Then, when he had calmed down a little, I got the story.

  It seemed that he had said something to Mrs Gaskell, like that he would see to it that she would not lose by it out of the book she was writing as long as she let him see it first and changed anything not to his liking. That, he said, had not pleased her, and she had told him that she would not permit anyone to even see the book first, let alone change anything in it. As for not losing by it, she said she had it in writing from Mr Brontë that all the
money from the book was to be hers anyway! He said he had asked her what on earth she was talking about, but she had just said the same thing over again and had told him to see Mr Brontë if he did not believe her.

  At that, and still not thinking that what she had said could possibly be right, he had rushed up to Mr Brontë’s room and had asked him for the truth of the matter. Seemingly, Mr Brontë had not at first taken in what Mr Nicholls was talking about, but after a while he recalled that he had indeed told her that she could keep any money from the book, and that had so angered Mr Nicholls that he wondered how he had stopped himself from hitting what he called ‘the b――― old fool’. Instead, he had tried to make him understand what could have been done with the money which, as he said, had been handed to Mrs Gaskell on a plate. Even if him and Mr Brontë had not kept it for themselves – which, without doubt, Mr Nicholls would have done – he had pointed out that so many things could have been done with it in the Parsonage and the Church and the Parish that just cried out for work on them.

  It had all been of no use, though, and so he had gone back to Mrs Gaskell and told her that it was evident that Mr Brontë was not himself and had not known what he was doing when he said that she could keep all the money, and that she should take no notice of what he had written, and in any case he was Madam’s next of kin and only he could make any agreements.

  Mrs Gaskell, though, would have none of it. She said that she had only taken on the job of the writing because of her understanding with Mr Brontë and she was holding to it. As she saw it, Mr Brontë was quite in order to ask for a book to be written about his daughter, and to tell her whatever she needed to know to write it, and Mr Nicholls had come forward of his own free will to tell her other things. It was in vain for Mr Nicholls to say that he would not have done so had he known that he would not be having any of the money. That, she said, was something that he should have spoken about a long time before and now it was too late. Mr Nicholls told me that he had said that he would see a lawyer about it, but she just said that he could do what he liked because she knew she had right on her side.