Juliet Gael

by Romancing Miss Bronte (v5)

  She could not know—indeed, it was a blessing that she would never know—how transparent she had made herself.

  “Lily, you know George Smith. Is it true that he was the inspiration for Graham Bretton?”

  “I’m sure he was.”

  “Is the portrait true to life?”

  “Very much like him.”

  “What about that fiery little professor? He scolds her so abominably. Should you have fallen in love with him?”

  “Well, one can see how Lucy Snowe did, when he alone had the power to see anything of her heart.”

  “I do feel almost a sense of reverence for one who is capable of so much deep feeling.”

  “Is she as sad in person?”

  Elizabeth Gaskell put aside her embroidery and looked up at the Winkworth sisters. “I think she works off a great deal of her sadness into her writing and out of her life. I hope to have her to visit this summer. You will get a glimpse of her yourself.” She added with a smile. “Be forewarned. She does have a wicked sense of humor.”

  Inevitably, men read her differently.

  After finishing Villette, Thackeray sent off a note to the beautiful socialite with whom he had recently fallen in love:

  It amuses me to read the author’s naïve confession of being in love with two men at the same time; and her readiness to fall in love at any time. The poor little woman of genius! The fiery little eager, brave, tremulous, homely faced creature! I can read a great deal of her life as I fancy in her book, and see that rather than have fame, rather than any other earthly good or mayhap heavenly one, she wants some Tomkins or another to love her and be in love with. But you see she is a little bit of a creature without a penny worth of good looks, thirty years old I should think, buried in the country, and eating up her own heart there, and no Tomkins will come. You girls with pretty faces and red boots (and what not) will get dozens of young fellows fluttering about you—whereas here is a genius, a noble heart longing to mate itself and destined to wither away into old maidenhood with no chance to fulfill the burning desire.

  Heger hung like a shadow in Charlotte’s thoughts during these months. Writing him into Paul Emanuel had not erased the pain, although that had dulled over the years. There had been profound satisfaction in reshaping her life so that she might have him and then ultimately free herself from him through his death. She hoped that she might be able to move on without him in the next book, but she had her doubts. She could not imagine the face of a lover that did not look like him and sound like him, and make her feel the way she had felt with him.

  Easter arrived and Charlotte was kept busy entertaining visiting parsons and presiding over refreshments and local teas. She had been relieved to hear that Arthur had withdrawn his application to the missionary society and had found himself a curacy, but she did not know where. He and her father never spoke anymore. Arthur had withdrawn ever deeper into a solitary life. He still performed his duties, the marriages and burials, but in such a frozen and gloomy manner that the villagers and his fellow curates took notice and began to shun him. If Mr. Grant or any other clergyman called hoping to cheer him, he would scarcely speak; try as they might to gain his confidence, he would tell them nothing. His stubborn silence alienated his friends but inspired Charlotte’s respect, and she fervently wished that her father would show the same restraint. Flossy still went to his lodgings, and he would come out and take the dog on lonely walks into the moors. He would cross the tops to see Sutcliffe Sowden, but that was all. No one else seemed to like him anymore.

  “He looks ill and miserable,” she wrote to Ellen.

  I think he will be better as soon as he fairly gets away from Haworth. He has grown so gloomy and moody that all his parishioners who once held him in esteem are beginning to lose their respect for him. We never meet nor speak, nor dare I look at him—silent pity is all I can give him—and as he knows nothing about that, it does no comfort. It has all grown to such a cankerous stage. Papa has a perfect antipathy to him, and he, I fear, to Papa. Martha says she hates him now—but she is easily agitated by Papa and her father. I think he might almost be dying and no one in this house would speak a friendly word to him. Alas! I do not know him well enough to be sure that there is truth and true affection in his heart—or only rancor and corroding disappointment at the bottom of his chagrin. In this state of things I must be, and I am, entirely passive. I may be losing the purest gem—and to me far the most precious life can give—genuine attachment, or I may be escaping the yoke of a morose temper. With these doubts lurking in my mind, my conscience will not suffer me to take one step in opposition to Papa’s will—blended as that will is with the most bitter and unreasonable prejudices. So I just leave the matter where we must leave all important matters.

  The wind, sweetened with the smell of moorland grasses, whipped at Arthur’s back as he made his way along the rocky path toward home. He had been out to visit Mrs. Binns, who had never regained her health after the birth of her sixth child, and Arthur suspected she would not survive. The family had always been kind to him, and he had wanted to see her and pray with her one last time. Night had already fallen when he left the farm, but the moors were flooded with silver moonlight so that he could see far beyond the rays cast by his lantern.

  Lacking the means to keep a horse, Arthur walked out of necessity, but he was a man of strong constitution with the endurance to tread the ragged land, and he relished the physical challenge. Even on cold days he would dawdle, taking time to marvel at the exposed roots of some massive elder, or an intriguing outcrop of purplish rock, or the shifting shadows cast by clouds racing over the frozen moortops. He found in these moments a deep fulfillment quite outside the realm of his religion. He had no inclinations toward botany, nor art, nor poetry; he did not have the education to examine the world scientifically or contemplate it through verse. He was quite simply a simple man in awe of creation, and that God had not graced him with a particular talent by which to interpret it all did not mean that it was any less wonderful to him.

  He had often pondered sharing these small delights with a wife. Had he accepted a living elsewhere, in a more civilized part of the country, he would perhaps have been married by now. But for reasons he could not clearly articulate he had remained here, and as the years had passed, he had grown firmly attached to this place.

  And to Charlotte.

  He passed down the narrow snicket between moss-grown walls and followed the path through the graveyard to the church. In his despondency he had been lax in supervising the altar preparations. Such negligence was uncharacteristic of him. The following morning, on Whitsunday, he would take his last communion service in Haworth, and he intended to perform it with all due reverence and dignity. Arthur firmly believed that the form of things mattered and that if the form broke down, the heart would be vulnerable to temptation.

  The massive wooden door groaned as it opened and Arthur raised his lantern, casting light into the dank gloom of the old church. He glanced up into the vast empty shadows, remembering his arrival eight years ago. A swell of sadness rose to his throat, but he shook it off and crossed the cold stone floor toward the vestry.

  “Good evenin’, Reverend. I didn’t mean to frighten ye, sir. I have the fair linen here, ready for tomorrow, all spotless and ironed without a wrinkle, the way ye like it.”

  It was Mary Burwin from the Altar Guild, one of the devout church-women who laundered his surplices and kept the silver vessels polished. She had disliked him intensely the first year; he had been critical of the way she and the others had performed their duties—had scolded them for wine stains on the altar linens and for tarnished chalices, and for waiting so late to prepare the altar that folks were already taking their seats while they bustled around dusting and setting out candles. But those days were long gone; they understood each other now, and deep affection had grown over the years.

  “It’s the red frontal for tomorrow, isn’t it, sir? The one Miss Brontë embroidered with the gold
cross?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Burwin. Thank you.”

  She unrolled the end and held it up to the lantern to show him. The gold threads shone in the soft, glowing light.

  “It’s a beauty, this hangin’, isn’t it, sir? Worthy of a great church. But then Miss Brontë’s stitches can’t be bested.” She rolled it back up and placed it in the cupboard with the silver. “Shall I lock it up, sir?”

  When there was no reply, she turned. He seemed to have frozen, staring into the shadows, his eyes fixed but clouded.

  “Sir? Do ye want it left open?”

  He blinked. His eyes were full of tears.

  “Oh, sir,” she said quietly, patting his arm with a work-callused hand. “We’re so sorry to see ye go. Truly, we are.”

  “I see everything is in order,” he said stiffly. “I need not have worried that God’s holy gifts would not be prepared properly.”

  “No, sir, ye need not worry yer head ’bout those things anymore. Ye taught us well, and we’re greatly beholden to ye.”

  “You are a good servant to the Lord, Mary Burwin. A good servant.”

  At these words of praise—all the more meaningful because they were so rare—Mary’s sere old face softened and tears stung her eyes.

  Taking up his lantern he turned to go, and as he passed through the door, she called after him, “And don’t ye worry, sir. I’ll be in here early in the mornin’.”

  An unusual stillness marked the congregation that morning. Everyone noted his heavy voice as Arthur delivered the sermon, and the heaviness reverberated throughout the silence.

  He descended to the altar to receive their alms, leading them through the confession and absolution of their sins. He knelt, he rose; he raised the chalice in the prayer of consecration. His voice broke. The congregation heard it, and all movement ceased.

  “Hear us, O merciful Father, we most humbly beseech Thee …”

  He struggled on, his rocklike countenance in a battle with forces he could not hold back.

  “… who in the same night that he was betrayed, took bread …”

  Again the voice broke; he faltered, then lost control. Josh Redman was assisting; he stepped up to Arthur and murmured words of encouragement. Arthur struggled on but his voice was barely a whisper.

  The communicants solemnly filed up and knelt before him. Charlotte had come alone this morning, without her father, intending to show Arthur by her solitary presence some token of regard. She had not thought it would be this difficult for him.

  She knelt before him; he stood pale, shaking, voiceless. Never had she seen a battle more sternly fought with feelings than the one she witnessed that morning. His hands trembled as he held the cup to her lips to drink. She did not dare raise her eyes to him, could not speak to him or comfort him. She crossed herself, rose, and returned to kneel at her pew.

  In the stillness, a sob broke from the back of the church. Then another. All around her, women were weeping. Charlotte—concealed behind her bonnet—wept quietly.

  On her way out, she caught a glimpse of him surrounded by a small crowd of well-wishers. Mary Burwin stood nearby with a cluster of ladies from the Altar Guild, and there was not a dry eye in the lot. Charlotte avoided them; she slipped outside and hurried up the path to her home.

  Charlotte had hoped her father wouldn’t hear about it, but he did. Undoubtedly John Brown or Josh Redman reported the incident because he brought it up at tea. He reacted with anger, thought Arthur’s conduct disgraceful. Called him an “unmanly driveler.” Charlotte had not expected compassion from him. She held her tongue.

  Charlotte came to the kitchen with an envelope heavy with coin.

  “Take this over to Miss Dixon at the school, Martha. Tell her it’s for the testimonial.”

  “Miss Dixon’s gone, miss.”

  “Gone?”

  “Left yesterday. Got a job teachin’ in Skipton, I’m told.”

  “I see. Well then, take it to the headmaster.”

  With a glance toward the door, Martha cleaned her hands on the apron and whispered, “Is it for Mr. Nicholls?”

  “Never you mind, Martha. Just take it.”

  “I hear they’re gettin’ him a gold watch.”

  “Go and come back quickly.”

  “That’s real charitable of ye, miss.”

  “Well, I should hope so, since no one else in this house seems to have any charity in their hearts for the man. Now hurry. And don’t tell a soul. Do you hear me? Not a soul.”

  On his last evening in Haworth, Arthur called at the parsonage to hand over the deeds of the school to Patrick and to bid them farewell. When he came out of the parlor, he found the door to the dining room open. Inside, the rugs were rolled up, the furniture moved to the center of the room; Martha and her younger sister Eliza were washing down the walls. Martha was on her knees, ringing out a rag in a pail of water, when she saw him standing in the doorway.

  “The mistress is upstairs, Reverend,” she whispered.

  He nodded stiffly. The look of disappointment on his face tugged at Martha’s heart.

  He lingered and seemed to wish to draw out the moment. “I see you’re up to a thorough spring cleaning.”

  “No, this is somethin’ special, sir. Mrs. Gaskell’s comin’ for a visit, sir. She’s a famous author like our mistress.”

  “I see. Well, good-bye then, Martha. Eliza.”

  “Good-bye, sir.”

  “May God …” His voice broke. The two women stared at him, a little in awe of this ox of a man so broken by love.

  He turned and was gone.

  Martha rose and dried her hands on her apron. “I’m goin’ to fetch the mistress.”

  She slipped out of her wooden clogs and ran barefoot up the stairs. She found Charlotte in the front bedroom window, peering down at the garden below.

  “Miss …”

  “I know, Martha,” Charlotte said.

  “He’s gone, miss. Gone for good.”

  Charlotte spun around, dashed past Martha, and down the stairs. Martha thought she’d never seen Miss Brontë hurry so.

  There were questions Charlotte wanted to ask him—where he was going, what he would do. She couldn’t have him leave thinking that she felt the same way her father did.

  When she stepped outside and saw him leaning against the garden gate, her heart went out to him. He had paused there, unable to walk away, his head down, sobbing as though his heart would break. She went straight to him and stood at his side, looking up into his face. Suddenly, all those questions she had been burning to ask were swept from her thoughts.

  “Mr. Nicholls, oh my dear fellow …”

  His look was an appeal for hope and encouragement.

  “My dear sir, you must not think me heartless. Your suffering … your constancy. I am not blind.”

  He found his voice. “I have so much I would have liked to say … had I just been given a few hours with you …”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “Would you give me leave to write to you?”

  “Oh, sir, there can be no exchange between us.”

  “But you will not return my letters, you would not be so cruel.”

  “My father—”

  “I will find a way.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I will come back for you.”

  There was the sound of a shutter opening, and Charlotte started.

  “You must go,” she urged him.

  “I will return.”

  He went out the gate and walked down the lane with a heavy step.

  There was nothing more she could do. He was gone. Gone. That was the end of it.

  She returned to her room upstairs and closed the door. Sitting on her bed, her hands clasped in her lap, she saw his face before her eyes. She recognized that look and knew what he was feeling. She had felt those same overwhelming emotions for Heger. That same kind of love. That same agony on parting, fearing she might never see him again.

  A week
later, Charlotte fell ill with influenza. She ran a high fever and a doctor was called from Leeds. She was in bed for nearly two weeks with severe headaches, too ill even to answer her own correspondence. To the more important letters from George Smith and Elizabeth Gaskell, she dictated replies through her father; Lily Gaskell’s visit, for which she had been so eagerly preparing, had to be postponed.

  They all suspected that her illness had something to do with Arthur’s departure.

  Then one night, when the servants had gone to their room and Patrick was on his way up to bed, Charlotte heard him cry out. Still weak, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and dragged herself from her bed to the stairs.

  “Charlotte!” he cried. There was panic in his voice.

  “What’s wrong, Papa?” she cried.

  He stood on the staircase with his candle in his hand and his face stricken with terror.

  “I can’t see!” he cried.

  “But you have your candle.”

  “I can’t see it! Has it gone out?”

  “No, Papa, it’s not gone out.”

  “It’s gone all black on me, Charlotte! Everything’s gone black! I’m blind! I’ve gone blind!”

  She got him to bed—ill and weak as she was—then went outdoors, climbed the stairs to the servants’ room, and woke Martha.

  “Go get Dr. Hall. Run. I think Papa’s had a stroke.”

  Dr. Hall conferred with Charlotte downstairs, alone. “The paralysis seems to have hit the optic nerve.”

  “Will he ever regain his sight?”

  “I can’t tell you. He may or he may not.”

  “God give us strength,” she whispered.

  “There’s no way of knowing. He could get better.”

  “We mustn’t tell him it was a stroke,” Charlotte warned. “It will only upset him.”

  The following day the light began to return. Patrick said it was as if a thick curtain was gradually drawn up, leaving yet a dark veil. Within a few more days he could find his way around the house. Still, his vision was greatly dimmed and his spirits oppressed. Of course, Charlotte would not do anything to disturb his peace of mind. Arthur’s name would not be uttered again.