Ellen noticed small but distinct changes in the home: the fire in the dining room burned brightly, and Ellen knew it must have been stoked all day long, for the room was comfortable and warm. At tea, they were served Martha’s special spice cake and thick slices of cold meats; there was a choice of marmalade or blueberry preserves. Anne had little appetite, but she clearly enjoyed herself, and there was a festiveness to the occasion that was not entirely forced.
Finally, Anne looked up with a smile, and with a quick glance at Charlotte she said, “We have something to share with you.”
“Yes,” Charlotte confirmed. “But you must swear to secrecy.”
Ellen’s eyes lighted on Charlotte. “You’re getting married.”
“I am not getting married,” Charlotte stated calmly, “but you must swear not to reveal to anyone what we say today—not to Ann or Mercy, not to your brothers. Even though you will be sorely tempted at times.”
Ellen nodded solemnly. “I swear.”
Charlotte neatly folded her napkin and rose. Drawing a fob of keys from her skirt pocket, she unlocked a cabinet and took down a small stack of books, which she set on the table before her friend.
“It was Emily’s wish that we remain anonymous. It was the only condition under which she agreed to publish. She was most insistent, and I could not break her trust. But now …”
Anne explained, “Mine is Agnes Grey. It’s the last volume in the set with Emily’s Wuthering Heights. And there’s a copy of my second novel as well. We know you have Jane Eyre, but we did not think you had my books and Emily’s, and we did want you to have them.”
Dear Ellen, kept in the dark for so long, quite literally beamed with delight. Her hand shot to her mouth to conceal a gasp.
“Oh, my!” she thrilled, awash in emotion, remembering all of Charlotte’s strident denials, yet conscious of the great privilege to be let in on the secret at last. Her eyes darted back and forth between the sisters.
“But you insisted it was not true!”
“We had no choice, Nell,” Charlotte pleaded. “You must forgive us.”
“We tried very hard not to lie outright,” Anne hurried to add. “Charlotte and I were both very careful with what we wrote to you.”
“She’s right, Nell. Go back and read my letters to you. If you have them still.”
“Oh, I do!” She turned to Anne. “So you’re Acton Bell?”
Anne answered with a flushed smile, “I am.”
She turned to Charlotte. “And you are Currer.”
Charlotte gave a sheepish nod.
“I was right, all along,” she said with a beam of smug satisfaction. “I was sure you wrote Jane Eyre. I knew it had to be you. I could tell from the stories you used to tell me about that awful school.” Her smile widened. “And how could you think I wouldn’t recognize your writing, Charlotte, after all the letters you’ve written to me over the years? It was your voice in that book.”
“You will forgive me, I know. I had no choice.”
“Joe Taylor is convinced you’re Currer Bell.”
“Yes, I know. He visited us last year. Some trumped-up excuse about asking my opinion about schools in Brussels, but it was really just a fishing expedition.”
“Does Mary know?” Ellen asked.
Ellen had always been jealous of Charlotte’s friendship with Mary Taylor, and Charlotte replied evasively: “I’ve written to her, but of course the letters take months to reach New Zealand.”
“What about Branwell? Did he ever know?”
Charlotte shook her head sadly. “We never told him. We thought it would only make him more wretched than he was. Although, I confess there were times when he made certain comments that I found curious. I sometimes imagined he was looking at me as though I had betrayed him.”
“You mustn’t harass yourself so,” Anne said to comfort her.
“And your father?”
“Papa didn’t know until last spring. He was the only one we let in on the secret.”
“But there was so much scandal! What did he say to that?”
“I give him only a carefully diluted account of everything. He gets just enough information to please him and no more, certainly nothing that would upset him. I should not like to see his peace of mind disturbed on my account.”
Anne said, “We keep our lives as authors very much to ourselves and out of his sight.”
“We don’t bring it up to him more than once a month.”
Ellen said, “Well, that’s no different than it ever was. You’ve always sheltered him from the storms in your lives.”
Charlotte added, “Anne and I have decided that we still wish our authorship to remain anonymous. Our anonymity has brought us the freedom to speak truthfully, and we should not wish to lose it. So you must keep our secret.”
“Oh, I shall!” Then the thrill of it took hold of Ellen and she bubbled with delight. “Oh, you’ve done it, haven’t you?” she said, pressing her hands to her chest. “This was always your dream. To live off your literary labors. To be independent.”
The evening was quiet, as were all the evenings at Haworth parsonage in the winter, when daylight was so rare and darkness so deep. Anne grew feverish and her cough worsened, but the shadow of Emily’s death and the specter of another were kept in abeyance by an abundance of candles, a brightly burning fire, and the presence of a friend.
That evening Charlotte invited Ellen to read to them.
“But you don’t like the way I read,” Ellen said sweetly, pausing to look up from her embroidering. She turned to Anne, hoping to draw a smile. “Once, when we were in school together, I tried to read a little poetry to her and she plugged up her ears.”
Anne did indeed break a smile, and Charlotte laughed.
“Here,” Charlotte said, thrusting the first volume of Mary Barton into Ellen’s lap. “My publisher sent it to me. It was published anonymously, but the author has been revealed. A lady from Manchester by the name of Elizabeth Gaskell.”
“Please, Ellen. Do indulge us,” Anne said. “I’m sure Charlotte would like a rest.”
“I would not do it justice,” Ellen murmured with a shade of self-consciousness.
Charlotte reached for Ellen’s hand and pressed it warmly. “You are such a comfort to us. No one, however lofty of intellect, no matter how artistic her reading, no one can ever be what you are to me.”
With that, Ellen’s inhibitions faded, and she put aside her embroidery and drew a candle near. Yet in the back of her mind lay the fact that her friend Charlotte was the notorious Currer Bell, who had written that “naughty” Jane Eyre. She could not forget that she was sharing an intimate moment with one of the great literary figures of the day, and her reading was unusually animated by a resonant glee.
Anne was not surprised when Dr. Teale kindly patted her hand, put away his stethoscope, and then retired to the parlor to consult with Charlotte and her father. Anne had always been perceived as the least capable in all things, and that perception would never change. As the youngest in a family of highly gifted and willful individuals, she had been forced to allow others to think and act for her. Now she would only know her fate secondhand. While she waited, she marched slowly around the dining room with her arm linked through Ellen’s, putting on such a brave, cheerful face and chatting so gaily that Ellen was fooled into believing that she was not the least bit in despair.
In reality, her heart was pounding hard in her chest and her legs were weak from fear. She heard the parlor door open, and Dr. Teale was shown out. Charlotte and her father entered the dining room.
Her violet-gray eyes scrutinized their faces; she had no difficulty reading their minds. Her father sat down on the sofa, and with an expression of undisguised pity he reached out to her and drew her down beside him.
“My dear little Anne …” he began, but his voice broke and he could say no more.
It was delivered as she had expected; she had been condemned to death as gently as possible. Anne
gripped her father’s gnarled hand tightly in her own, and in that brief heart-pounding moment she knew what awaited her. She had witnessed her sister’s long agony and knew what she would have to endure, the long days spent in no other use than suffering.
“Is there any chance that I might recover?”
Charlotte sat down next to her sister and took her other hand. “There is always hope. And Dr. Teale has been quite clear that with proper care it is possible to arrest the progress of the disease.”
“Well, then, whatever you ask of me, I shall do it,” Anne replied brightly, as though there were something exhilarating in the idea of facing off with death.
Anne became the model invalid, patiently submitting to the most revolting and torturous remedies. The greater her pain, the greater her bravery and cheerfulness. It was her way of proving her worth, of distinguishing herself and earning her family’s approval. She slept in Emily’s room now, at the doctor’s recommendation, to avoid transmitting the disease to Charlotte. Anne didn’t like sleeping alone, and she was terribly lonely at night. In those moments of forced solitude, she expressed her well-hidden despair in poetry that no one would read until after her death. When she wept, she turned her face to the pillow, taking care that no one should hear.
During the following months, Charlotte was able to fall back into that comfortable role of managing the lives around her; they were all content with her intervening hand, and thankful for it. She found a hundred little details to tend to throughout the day; she wrote letters to specialists asking second, even third opinions; she prepared pitch plasters and bran tea, and dressed the blisters on Anne’s side, a result of overheated glass cups applied by overzealous doctors. She served up nauseating doses of cod-liver oil and carbonate of iron, believing she had some control over fate, refusing to accept that she would be the last, the only one to survive.
In the spring, Anne’s symptoms seemed to lessen, and she expressed a desire to visit Scarborough, believing that the sea air and pleasant surroundings would be beneficial. Charlotte fought tooth and nail against the idea, citing a hundred excuses but keeping to herself the one that most terrified her: that death would come suddenly when they least expected it, and they would be far away from home.
Finally, Anne prevailed, having won her father’s intervention and Dr. Teale’s approval; Ellen agreed to come, too. On the day before their departure, Anne sent a note around to Arthur asking him to call upon her that evening.
After supper she told Charlotte what she had done.
“Mr. Nicholls? What ever for, dearest?”
“I would like to speak to him.”
“Well then, just step into the parlor. He’s there every evening.”
“We cannot speak freely in Papa’s presence; you know that. And I cannot entertain him alone, so of course you will be present, but I would ask you to allow me to converse with him without …” Anne paused and the color rose to her cheeks.
“Without what?”
“I know his narrow-mindedness offends your spirit of tolerance, and I know Papa likes to make fun of him, but he is a kind, sensible man and we all lean heavily on him. He may not be spectacular in the pulpit, but he is no less worthy of our respect because of it.”
Charlotte was set to reply, the words itching on her tongue, but Anne stopped her with a gesture.
“Allow me to finish, Tally.” She drew a painful breath and added, “Our family is greatly hobbled, and we have yet another abyss to cross, and Mr. Nicholls is a steady light in that darkness. Do not underestimate him.”
Anne’s head fell back against the chair; she had exhausted herself. Through closed eyes she said, “When he is here I would like to direct the conversation myself, if you please, Charlotte. I don’t see anything wrong in that.”
Arthur came by that evening with a handful of yellow gorse and bluebells for Anne, effusing about the splendid meadows in bloom above Hardcastle Crags. In the past Charlotte might have been niggardly in her appreciation, but now she thanked him warmly and begged him to take a chair.
Arthur set his hat on the floor and glanced stiffly at Charlotte. Unusually for her, she had nothing to say. She stood near the door, clutching the flowers in her hand, looking strangely meek.
Arthur turned to Anne, and Charlotte noticed how his reserve seemed to melt.
“Do you know the walk along Hardcastle Crags, Miss Anne?”
“I do, sir. We have picnicked in that area in the past. You walk there frequently, do you not?”
“I do. To visit my friend Mr. Sowden.”
“Hebben Bridge is a long walk, sir.”
“And he is a loyal friend,” Arthur replied simply. “Your father tells me you are off tomorrow to Scarborough.”
“Yes, both Charlotte and I, with our friend Ellen.”
Again he turned to Charlotte for a reply, but she gave him an awkward smile and said nothing.
He turned back to Anne. “A delightful party. Will you stay long?”
“I think not. But we will stop a night in York to visit York Minster, which I have seen but would like to visit again.”
“And you have arranged for pleasant lodgings in Scarborough?”
“Yes. We have an excellent situation with a view of the sea.”
“Ah, capital, Miss Anne! A well-deserved treat after a long, dreary winter. I expect to see you back in greatly improved health.”
“Yes, I do intend to return, Mr. Nicholls, if it would please God to spare me. I long to do some good in the world before I leave it. I have many schemes in my head for the future.”
“Schemes?” Arthur said with interest. “What kinds of schemes?”
Anne replied shyly, “Oh, nothing that would ever come to your attention. They are humble plans, but still I should not like them all to come to nothing, and myself to have lived to so little purpose.”
“You should never say that, Miss Anne,” he told her in his soft Irish voice. “You have lived the life that God has given you.” He paused and then added in a gently reassuring tone, one that Charlotte had never heard him use before, “It is a sign of wisdom to recognize those things we cannot change about ourselves and our fate. You, Miss Anne, you have lived your life in devotion and constancy in His love, and He asks no more than that.”
“And how would you know this about me, sir?”
“I am not as unobservant as you may think.”
Anne smiled. “Then I need not tell you why I have asked you to call.”
Arthur leaned back in his chair and stroked his side whiskers in a pretense of deep divination. “Might it have to do with a certain black-and-white spaniel?”
“It might.”
“The same little spaniel that comes daily to my rooms and accompanies me on my visits in the parish? I believe he goes by the name of Flossy, is that right?”
Anne smiled. “You will continue your attentions in my absence, will you not?”
“I assure you that you will return to find him lacking nothing except your own irreplaceable affection.”
Charlotte had been biting her tongue all throughout this exchange; she had never seen Anne speak more than a few words to Arthur Nicholls, but it occurred to her that there existed between the two of them an unspoken sympathy. For these few minutes, Charlotte had been made to feel quite disposable, and it stirred a curious emotion in her heart, something she could not recognize.
In a gracious gesture, Anne held out her skeletal hand. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Arthur rose, took her hand, and shook it.
“Good-bye,” he said warmly. “God grant you a safe journey and a speedy recovery.”
Charlotte accompanied him into the passageway. He settled his hat on his head and opened the door without addressing a word to her. Out of politeness, Charlotte spoke up.
“Thank you for calling,” she said.
When he turned, she saw that his face had completely softened. It was not the Mr. Nicholls she knew; he wore an expression of utter vulner
ability, and his eyes were swimming with tears.
“You have my deepest sympathy,” he muttered. Without waiting for a reply, he hurried outside.
When Charlotte returned to the dining room she found Anne prettily flushed, with a book in her hands.
Charlotte sat down with her mending basket on her knees and pulled out one of her father’s socks. She stretched the wool tight to examine it for holes and gave a melancholy sigh. “There’s so little to do anymore. We were always making for Branwell. He went through his shirts so quickly.” Then she laid down the sock and looked up at her sister. “What schemes?”
Anne lifted her eyes from her book with a baffled look on her face.
“The schemes you were talking about to Mr. Nicholls.”
Anne said, “Novels, of course, Charlotte. What else would it be?”
“Oh,” Charlotte said, and she picked up the sock again.
Anne smiled quietly to herself. Of all those close to her, it had been Arthur who had offered some small tribute to her worth. Nothing grand had ever been expected of her, and there was nothing to disappoint where there were so few expectations. But Anne had finally come to recognize her own qualities: she had learned how to grow, to allow experience, good and bad, to shape her intelligence and her writing. She had succeeded as a governess and a novelist, but Emily really hadn’t cared, and Charlotte had unfairly measured her little sister’s accomplishments against her own genius and prejudices, and found them unworthy of recognition.
In York they wheeled her around town in a bath chair, and with her own earnings she bought two bonnets and a new dress in a pale sprigged muslin. Ellen declared it the prettiest dress Anne had ever owned. Watching her admire her reflection in the mirror and shake out the softly flounced skirt, Charlotte brightened a little, imagining a day when Anne had recovered, and would wear her white dresses again.
Everywhere they turned they found strong arms willing to lift her out of a carriage or carry her across the railway lines, and her joy seemed to cast a sweetness on every inconvenience, great or small. Scarborough was Anne’s favorite place in all the world; the town cheered her immensely. She drove a donkey cart on the beach and took the baths; she walked the bridge and sat on a bench at sunset, watching the sea.
Juliet Gael Page 19
