They were all touchy and on the verge of tears these days, and Arthur’s gesture of kindness was sorely needed in a home that had seen so much sorrow. Tabby turned away so that they wouldn’t see her tears, and Martha would have thrown her arms around his neck and hugged him shamelessly were it not for the presence of Charlotte. They knew how she spoke so harshly of the curate, and they would not do anything to cross her.
Arthur was suddenly aware of their eyes on him; he rose and self-consciously smoothed back his wind-blown hair. “Well, ladies, I don’t see anything else. Those wounds should heal up if you keep him still.”
“You’ll have a nice cup of tea before you go, Mr. Nicholls,” Charlotte said unexpectedly.
Arthur’s first reaction was to decline, and he almost had the words out of his mouth, but then he changed his mind. “I would be very grateful for a cup of tea just now, Miss Brontë.” When he looked up, his face burst into that broad smile of his that lit up a room, but Charlotte had turned to the cabinet to get down the tea things and didn’t notice.
“We are the ones who are grateful,” Charlotte said quietly. “Emily would have been out there in the fray herself, were she well enough.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” Arthur said, shaking his head in a gesture of respectful awe. “I remember once watching Miss Emily traipse across a field right in front of the Heatons’ bull, and that is one bad-tempered creature. Well, she crossed right under his nose. And he respectfully let her pass. She seemed to know he wouldn’t harm her. She does indeed have a way with animals.”
Arthur noticed then that Martha was wiping back tears, and he wondered what he’d just walked in on, because it couldn’t be just about the old dog.
Charlotte said, “I apologize for serving you in the kitchen, but Papa is over at Oxenhope for a meeting.”
“Here’s your hat … an’ your prayer book, sir,” Martha said, setting both on the table behind him. “I’m sorry, but the cover got a little wet from the snow,” she added timidly.
It was just the kind of thing that would put him out of sorts: a damaged prayer book, a tarnished chalice, a hat worn during service—any little thing that might imply disrespect to the church. But he only glanced at it and said, “It’s a prayer book. It can be replaced. This old warrior here is one of a kind.”
A strange sound cut through his talk, a rapid, rasping breath. He turned to find Emily paused in the doorway, lost in the folds of a heavy shawl. Her face had the appearance he had come to recognize in consumptives, the skin clinging to the bones, with no flesh to give contour or shape, so that she was hardly recognizable.
Arthur pushed back the bench and rose to his feet. “He’s all right, Miss Emily. He’ll be as good as new in a few days.”
Emily fixed him with a dim and indifferent gaze, as if she didn’t recognize him. Keeper, detecting her presence, lifted his head. With great effort, he got to his feet and limped painfully toward her, wagging his tail. Slowly, weighing every movement against the reserve of strength left in her body, she turned and shuffled out of the room with Keeper trailing behind her.
Charlotte set a pitcher of milk on the table and then turned away.
“I do believe her inflammation is subsiding,” she said, “and all these symptoms will presently be leaving her, and she’ll be gaining back her strength. I am not so gloomy as my father; he has seen this affliction in our family before, and he warns me that I must not hope—but I cannot renounce hope. I cannot. I cannot.”
She spoke with a steady, mild voice, but she was trembling so much that when she turned toward him with cup and saucer, it rattled in her hand. He reached for it and took it from her, and this time he caught her eye. For once she did not avoid his gaze or cut him with an impatient and curt remark. It was not so much his countenance as it was his entire bearing that spoke of a tenderness, a willingness to shoulder the burden of her particular grief, an offer of understanding; it broke through her taut and stiff reserve and softened her like a beam of sunlight on a harsh winter day.
In the hours leading up to her death that Tuesday in December, as she sat in her chair before the fire, too weak to even lift her head, Emily admitted at last to her mortality. With a breath that rattled up through the hole in her lungs, she whispered that she would see a doctor, if they would be so good as to call him. Charlotte immediately dashed off a note and Martha hurried down to the Bull to find a messenger, but they all knew it was too late. Her father lifted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs to her room, laying her gently in her narrow bed positioned beneath the window that looked over the valley and the moors rising to the east. It was past noon and the sun had already moved to the south, but she turned her head so that her gray eyes fixed on the weak wintry light spilling into the room. There was scant consciousness left in her mind, but in the last terrible moments of suffering she was dimly aware of her family and the servants around her, and Keeper curled on the rug beside her bed, and the pressure of Charlotte’s hand in her hand, the fine, delicate fingers intertwined firmly with her own.
Just three days before Christmas, they buried Emily in the family vault beneath the aisle in the church, beside her brother and her mother, her sisters and her aunt. Keeper accompanied them into the church, into the family pew, and lay at their feet while Arthur conducted the service. After the funeral tea when the few guests had gone home, the old dog padded upstairs to her bedroom and lay there, whining softly, until nightfall. When the moon rose high in the cold December sky and she didn’t return, he set up a pitiful howl that was carried off into the night on the keening wind.
As Charlotte lay next to Anne, listening to the dog’s wail, she wondered how it was possible to feel so empty and still be alive. Finally she rose, lit her candle, and turned for consolation not to the Lord’s Word but to Emily’s writing, to the final lines of Wuthering Heights.
I sought, and soon discovered, the three head-stones on the slope next the moor—the middle one gray, and half buried in the heath—Edgar Linton’s only harmonized by the turf, and moss creeping up its foot—Heathcliff’s still bare.
I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
Chapter Fourteen
By the time Christmas Day arrived, Arthur needed relief from the gloomy atmosphere of Church Lane. It was not only the parsonage that was affected but his own lodging as well. Branwell’s death had touched off a tremor of marital discontent, for Mrs. Brown had never approved of the way her husband had encouraged the young man’s drinking habits—in a parson’s son, of all people—and she poured a good deal of blame on John Brown’s plate every night along with his meat and potatoes. The sexton had begun to find his suppers unpalatable and now took them down at the Black Bull, coming home late and drunk. Martha, desolate over Emily’s death, dashed across the lane several times a day to seek consolation from her mother and sisters. The good-natured gossip and laughter were gone, and the kitchen of Sexton House was a glum place, with the women always swollen-eyed or in tears. Even the Haworth Band had slipped quietly past the Brontës’ windows on their Christmas Eve caroling tour, thinking the parson would take little joy in songs celebrating the birth of a child when he had just lost two of his own.
Arthur was a man of deep and strong attachments that found their expression not in words but in loyalty, duty, and care. He had been deeply concerned about the reclusive old reverend sitting in silence in the cold gloom of his parlor following his son’s death, and at the end of every day, even when exhausted to the point of collapse by his wide-reaching parish duties, Arthur made it a point to call on him. He listened to the father pour out his confusion, his disappointments and regrets, and Arthur in his loyalty buried all these confidences in his heart; never a word was leaked outside the walls of the parsonage. Arthur had come to accept that h
is role in the family was as a sort of inferior appendage, one that performed a host of needed functions but was never accepted as a worthy or an equal. It was expected that he bend and sway with the winds that blew through their lives, but the inner workings of his heart were of no concern to them. Without a family of his own, Arthur had often wished to unburden his heart to this clergyman he so respected and admired, but for all his virtues Patrick Brontë remained a vain, self-centered man who could not see a farthing beyond the issues and concerns that occupied his own thoughts. He was ignorant of how Arthur had grieved for the family, how he had knelt on the hard stone of the cold church late at night and prayed so fervently, first for the redemption of the son, then that God might spare the daughter; how the sight of Charlotte weeping as her sister’s body was lowered into the vault wrenched the heart from his chest.
Arthur had been invited to Christmas dinner at the home of his friend Joseph Grant and his wife, Sarah, and immediately after the Christmas service he set off for Oxenhope in the whirling snow, head cleaving the wind, the pockets of his heavy coat weighted with oranges for his host. Joseph Grant had proved himself to be a shameless pragmatist who saw no need to spend much time in the service of the poor if they could be of no service to him. He had turned all this snobbism to good cause and had raised enough money from the wealthy landowners to build a church in Oxenhope, of which he now had the living.
His wife, Sarah, imported from Essex, was stout, dimpled, and refreshingly good-humored. She was also petty-minded, with an immense capacity for small talk, and perfectly submissive to her husband in thought, word, and deed. Lacking any facility for forming her own judgments, she had a habit, whenever he spoke, of chiming in at every pause, repeating his comments with the brainless mimicry of a parrot.
Arthur and his friend Sutcliffe Sowden shared many a chuckle at their expense, but Arthur did indeed envy them their happiness. The Grants welcomed Arthur and all the bachelor clergymen to their home with genuine warmth, and Sarah esteemed it her sacred duty to play matchmaker to the unmarried curates. With each parting she would take Arthur aside in the passage and whisper, “We will find you a good wife, Mr. Nicholls. You may trust me on that.”
That Christmas Day, Arthur warmed himself before a cheerful fire with a mug of spiced ale in his hand and laughed more easily than he had done in months. Sarah Grant had taken great pains with the vicarage, decorating it lavishly with garlands of holly and candelabras, and throwing spices on the fire to scent the rooms. They sang joyous carols and feasted on roast goose and applesauce, followed by Christmas pudding and coffee, and Mrs. Grant presided over it all with a great cheerful bustle that brought her normally florid complexion to a feverish radiance. Arthur could not imagine Charlotte Brontë bringing this kind of warmth and affection to any man’s life, and yet, for all her cold and proud ways, his thoughts were forever fixed on her.
Arthur was pressed to stay the night, and after the other guests had departed, the conversation turned again to the sobering tragedies in Haworth.
“Oh, it is sad,” Sarah said as she sat stroking her cat, “Mr. Brontë losing both his children within a few months.”
“He trusts in God,” Arthur replied, “and God has sustained him. They are all quite calm. Although I confess it’s the younger sister who gives most cause for concern now.”
“You mean Miss Anne?”
“She’s very weak and has lost a good deal of weight.”
Sarah started. “Oh goodness, you don’t mean to say that she’s consumptive as well?”
“I can’t say. I dare not ask.” He hesitated and then added, “Miss Brontë is most distressed, but she contains her grief most admirably. I have always had the impression that she was more attached to Miss Emily than Miss Anne.”
Joseph Grant raised a lazy eyebrow. “I had to sit next to that girl once at a Whitsuntide tea—one of the most awkward moments I’ve ever experienced.”
“Do you mean Miss Emily, dearest?”
“Indeed I do. Try as I might, I couldn’t get a word out of her. I had the distinct impression she was looking down her nose at me. Most rude. I made sure I never got stuck sitting next to her again.”
“I don’t believe anyone really knew her—outside her family,” Arthur said.
“I doubt there was anything to know.”
“I respectfully disagree with you, Mrs. Grant. She was proud and reclusive, but I think she was quite an exceptional young lady.”
“Ah, as usual. Arthur comes to the defense of the Misses Brontë,” Joseph teased.
“Exceptional in what regard?” his wife asked.
Arthur could not say—it was an impression he’d often had, on the rare occasions when he had exchanged a word with her. “I’ve heard the Heatons of Ponden Hall speak of her with admiration. Apparently she read a good deal and borrowed from their library.”
“But you, Mr. Nicholls? What shall you say in her defense?”
He was thinking of the times he had walked through the garden gate to the strains of piano music. Several times as he’d glanced through the parlor window he had caught a glimpse of Emily from the back, her lean figure bent over the keyboard and her elbows bobbing in the air, but she had always vanished by the time the door was opened. Upon entering the parlor he would find the small cabinet piano shut up and sheets of music hastily swept into a pile on the chair.
He said simply, and with a trace of sadness, “She played the piano with great feeling.”
“Ah, well, that is to be expected from any educated young woman, is it not?”
“If I speak simply, it does not imply that her talent was mediocre. I was never graced with a performance, but I heard snatches here and there and it was quite impressive. She studied in Brussels, you know, and was quite fond of the German composers. I once had the privilege of catching a few strains of an aria from Handel’s Messiah. It was a summer day and the window was open, and I recognized it and stopped to listen.” He paused, remembering how Keeper had heard the crunch of his steps on the gravel walk and started whining, and the music had abruptly stopped. “What little I heard was no less than brilliant.”
Mrs. Grant suddenly leaned forward with a gossipy gleam in her eye. “Mr. Grant tells me you allowed that dog of theirs into the church for the service.”
Her husband scowled. “I was ready to have a word with the old parson when I heard that he intended to do it, but Arthur here dissuaded me.”
“Mr. Nicholls!” she scolded with a wide grin. “That is so unlike you!”
“I daresay the dog was better behaved than many of our parishioners,” Arthur smiled. “Didn’t make a sound throughout the service.”
“Oh, listen to him, Mr. Grant. Where are all his scruples about the dignity of the church?”
“Scruples aside, I certainly kept my distance from the beast,” Joseph frowned. “I remember when he nearly took a chunk out of my backside.”
“Oh yes, dogs are terribly unpredictable, we find. They can be quite ferocious.” She stroked her cat lovingly. “Well, I shall leave you two to sort out the truly important matters.” She gently set the puss on the floor and rose, smoothing her skirt. As she passed her husband, she laid a hand on his shoulder and said with a bright smile, “We need to find him a wife.”
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte had been at the upstairs window with her opera glasses for nearly twenty minutes when she finally caught sight of the gig coming up the road from Keighley. Even at a distance she could recognize it by the peculiar lope of the old bay, drawing the only conveyance Haworth had to offer; she had paid to have it pick up Ellen at the train station in Keighley and deliver her to the parsonage, a luxury she had never been able to offer her friend in the past.
Charlotte snatched up her shawl and hurried downstairs to wait outside at the gate. The roads were hard and icy, and Charlotte had been worried that the weather might have prevented her friend from visiting.
Ellen alighted from the gig, her eyes big pools of w
orry.
“She’s very thin,” Charlotte cried over the wind. “It will be a shock. But you mustn’t say anything. She’s trying so hard to be brave.”
Ellen followed Charlotte upstairs to the guest room, which had last been Branwell’s. She removed her bonnet and glanced around, thinking how lonely it must be now, with all of them gone but Charlotte and Anne. After the driver had deposited her trunk and been dismissed, she turned around and saw how bravely Charlotte was fighting back the tears.
“I’m so glad you’ve come.”
Ellen took her friend in her arms, and Charlotte broke down in sobs.
Ellen caressed the soft brown hair. “I wish you’d sent for me earlier,” she whispered.
“Emily wouldn’t have it. You know how she is.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But Anne was so eager for you to come. She considers you a true friend, not just mine but hers as well.” Charlotte dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief.
“And so I am.”
“She is so quiet about losing Emily. She never says a word, but you can see it in her face.”
“Will she see a doctor?”
Charlotte nodded. “Oh, yes. We’ve written to a specialist in Leeds, and he’s coming out tomorrow to examine her. She talks freely about her condition, and that’s a great relief to us.”
“How is your father?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Not well. And he worries so. Every day he asks about my health. I must be strong, for both of them.”
“And I am here to help you.”
Charlotte squeezed her hand. “Oh, dear, you’re still so cold from your journey. Come, we must get you downstairs to the fire.”
Anne was sitting in the parlor, in the chair where Emily once sat, but she was cheerful and in good spirits. Charlotte had warned Ellen on the stairs, “Don’t be fooled into believing she’s not very ill.” Anne had begun to waste away, like the others, and Charlotte could now recognize the signs of gradual decline.
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