by Juliet Gael
“God help me,” Patrick muttered, “my heart has hardened toward that woman. She’s ruined him.” He lifted his clouded eyes to Charlotte. “You cannot know, daughter, what it’s like for a father to stand by and watch a beloved child sucked into the power of someone like that. He won’t listen to me. I have no control over him. We can only turn to God and beseech His aid. Come, Charlotte. Let’s pray. Kneel down with me and pray. Let us pray for him to be delivered from this harlot.”
Everyone at the Black Bull knew something was wrong that afternoon. Branwell closed himself in the back room with the visitor, but after the visitor had gone, Branwell did not emerge. Hartley Merrall was upstairs meeting with the other mill owners about the wool comber’s strike, and when he came downstairs they asked him to look in on Branwell. Hartley found him on the floor curled up in a ball, bleating like a lamb.
Hartley got him to his feet and said he’d take him home. A powerful storm had moved in, with sharp gusts of wind and rain, and he had difficulty getting Branwell up the lane. Arthur, who was standing at the schoolroom door, saw them coming and ran to help.
“What happened?” Arthur asked as he slung Branwell’s limp arm over his shoulder.
“Poor fellow’s had a shock.”
“It’s not drink?”
“Hasn’t had a drop.” He shot a glance at Arthur. “Might’ve been a fit. Had ’em since he was a boy.”
“What kind of fit?”
“Falls down an’ goes all stiff. I seen him break a tooth once. Awful frightening to watch. Like the devil’s got him.”
“It’s epilepsy. And it’s neither of the devil nor is it divine,” Arthur replied sharply.
“Well, us folks here don’t call it anything. Out of politeness for the family.”
“Very good,” Arthur answered, a shade more gently.
They were nearing the gate to the parsonage when Arthur said, “I think it might be wise to take him around the back of the house to the kitchen, so as not to distress Mr. Brontë.”
Hartley caught the look in Arthur’s eye. “Yes, quite. Good idea.”
Dripping with rain, they found Martha in the backyard scurrying to bring in the laundry. She let out a cry of distress at the sight of Branwell slumped between the two men, but Arthur quieted her down quickly enough.
“Hush, Martha. He’s not hurt. Go get your mistress and do it quietly, do you hear?”
Dripping with rain, they waited in the scullery with the dogs anxiously whining at their feet until Charlotte appeared. She was too humiliated to offer Arthur anything but a curt nod of thanks.
“Leave me alone,” Branwell mumbled, his face in the pillow. Charlotte was trying to get him out of his wet jacket. He refused to cooperate and rolled to the wall.
“You’re shivering. You’ll catch your death of cold.”
“Good. I shall be only too pleased to have an easy way out of my misery.”
She managed to peel his muddy socks from his feet without protest.
“Oh, Branwell.” She shook her head. “Why didn’t you wear your shoes? You’ve torn a hole …”
He gave her a pathetic look. “Yes, Branwell’s socks are ruined and they must be mended.”
He turned back to his pillow and began to weep uncontrollably. Charlotte was afraid to leave him alone. She covered him with a blanket.
“What happened? Who did you meet?”
“What do you care? You don’t care a tinker’s damn for my happiness.”
“I rather think that you enjoy your wretchedness.”
“Enjoy it?” he said with an astounded look.
“You refuse to make any effort to improve your situation.”
“I promise, you would never say such a thing if you had ever, for one moment, known the heartache of truly loving a good and worthy being whom you cannot and will never have!”
“No,” she replied coolly. “No, those sentiments are quite … quite foreign to me, dear brother.”
The door opened and Anne slipped into the room. Branwell’s face softened as she sat down on the bed beside him.
“What happened?”
“I had a visit. William Allison.”
“From Thorp Green?” Anne asked.
Branwell nodded.
“He’s the Robinsons’ coachman,” Anne explained to Charlotte.
“She can’t marry me now,” he whimpered. “Not now or ever. That heartless husband of hers made sure of it. He made her swear at his deathbed that she would sever all ties with me. If she marries me, she won’t inherit a thing. William said she’s sick with remorse now, for what she’s done to me and to him both. All she talks about is going off to a convent.” Branwell wiped away a tear with the back of his hand.
There was a knock on the door, and Martha entered.
“My father’s downstairs, sir,” she said to Branwell. “He heard you were ailin’ and wants to know if he can do anything …”
“Bless the man, God bless him.” Branwell threw back the blanket and sat up. “Tell him I’ll be right down. Tell him to wait.”
When she had closed the door, Charlotte and Anne watched in astonishment as he pulled a small purse from his pocket and poured out a handful of gold coins.
“Where did you get all that?” Charlotte asked.
“Where do you think?” he said sullenly. “Do you think I’m lying when I say she loves me?” He took out a half sovereign and stuffed the purse back into his jacket. “Now, this, this will buy me a little forgetfulness.”
John Brown was waiting in the kitchen, his sun-streaked hair damp from the rain, his shirt covered in a fine gray dust. He had been in his shed, working a block of stone, when Arthur Nicholls had stopped by and alerted him about the incident at the Black Bull.
As a child, Branwell had hung about the shed while John Brown chiseled names on tombstones, and in the graveyards while they buried the dead. For all his coarseness, John possessed finer instincts than those that were generally found among his vulgar companions, and Branwell liked him for his easygoing company, and his solid and manly advice. John believed that there was not a care in the world that couldn’t be righted with a little hard currency, and he was more than happy to take Branwell’s half sovereign into the village to change it, and return with a measure of gin and a small bottle of tincture of opium.
Branwell spent the rest of the day sitting on the ground in the shed with his back against a slab of cool marble, drinking from a flask while John Brown chipped away at a tombstone. By supper, he was too drunk to stand up, so Emily came out and helped him back home. He was sick in the night and woke up the household as he groped around in the dark for the washbasin, shattering the water pitcher. In the morning, they could smell the stench from the hall, and when they went in they found him in a deep, opium-induced sleep. They could not waken him, so they did their best to clean up after him, mopping the floor and clearing away the broken porcelain, washing his face and changing his sour shirt. Emily took up soup and bread and tea, but she had a hard time rousing him, and finally they left him alone.
Chapter Seven
The wind had blown Charlotte’s hair loose, and she stood in the kitchen with her head down, fiddling with her combs, annoyed with her sisters for being gone so long.
“Miss Brontë …”
She whirled around. Arthur stood in the kitchen doorway, stiff and proud-looking, his hat in his hand. It was half past seven, and he had just emerged from her father’s study.
“Good evening, Mr. Nicholls,” she said frostily.
“I wondered if I might have a word with you?”
“Certainly.”
Tabby was in her chair in the corner near the stove; she glanced up from her knitting and shot a sly look to Martha, who was measuring out tea. The curate had made quite a stink earlier in the week when he and all the Puseyite clergy in the district had boycotted a concert at the Haworth church—simply because the featured soloist, a celebrated tenor from Manchester, was a Baptist.
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�May I inquire if you’ve had any success finding a surgeon for your father?”
“I’ve had some names brought to my attention,” she answered.
“I see.” He paused. “But as yet you’ve not fixed a date?”
“Mr. Nicholls,” Charlotte said, making no effort to hide her impatience, “I know you’re eager to take your holiday, but I’m sure you understand that my father is quite wary of having someone cut into his eyes unless he’s completely confident of a successful outcome.”
“It was not my intention to upset you,” Arthur replied coolly. “I merely wished to inform my family when they might expect me. There are others involved, as I’m sure you are aware.”
“You did not upset me, Mr. Nicholls,” she answered with a pinched voice. “I am not upset.”
“Of course not,” he replied stiffly with a civil bow. “Good evening.”
He smoothed back his jet-black hair before setting his hat on his head, then paused in mid-gesture and added in a sort of cool afterthought, to let her know that he was indifferent to her, “I thought I might take Flossy for a walk.”
“He’s gone for a walk on the moor with Anne,” Charlotte replied. She felt guilty now, and gave him a strained smile. “But thank you for offering.”
“So, Miss Anne’s health is improved?”
“Yes, it has. Thank you.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” He added thoughtfully, “My cousin Mary in Ireland suffers from asthma as well. It is a terrible affliction.”
“Yes, it is. But my sister bears these things with no complaint.”
“And you are much improved as well?” he added. “You are well over your cold?”
“I am, sir.”
“It’s been a dreadful season,” he observed solemnly, fastening his eyes on the hat he held in his hands. “Everyone in the village has been down with colds or influenza. But I’m relieved that you’ve all pulled through and your father is quite on the mend.”
Out of pity for him, Tabby spoke up: “Ye’re doin’ well yerself Mr. Nicholls, sir? Ye’re not ailin’?”
His smile was immediate and broke over his face with such gratitude for this kind word that Charlotte felt another pang of conscience. “Thank you for your concern, Tabby. I seem to have come through quite unscathed.”
He wished them a good day, then turned and strode back down the hall and let himself out through the front door.
“Oh, that man does irritate me,” Charlotte cried, flinging up her hands. “If he says one more word to me about his holiday in Ireland, I think I’ll—”
“Ah, miss, the gentleman ’as ’is good side, now. You mustn’t be so ’ard on ’im.”
“His good side. What? He takes Flossy on walks?”
“An’ it’s a good thing ’e does,” Tabby muttered. “That little dog’s fat as a sheep.”
Charlotte felt besieged. She shook her head and resigned herself to an imperfect order of things. “Martha, I’ll just take my tea by myself. It’s long past the hour. I’m tired of waiting.” She looked around for her fan. “It’s terribly thoughtless of them to be out so late.”
Tabby paused to rest her hands. “It’s a right fine summer evenin’, good for walkin’, and Miss Anne don’t get out enough as it is.”
“I do worry, though.”
“They’ve got the dogs,” Martha remarked as she poured boiling water into the teapot. “No ’arm will come to ’em.”
“It would do ye good to get out a little more than what ye do,” Tabby said. “When ye was younger, ye’d be outdoors with yer sketch pad till ye couldn’t hardly see yer hand in front o’ yer face, and no one could get you to come inside.”
“I don’t feel so carefree anymore, Tabby. There’s so much here at home that needs attention, and I dare not go away for fear it’ll all come crashing down.” She had found her fan—beneath Emily’s book of German poetry—and gathered up her skirts and sat down at the bench. “I’ll eat in the kitchen, Martha.”
“But, miss, it’s unbearable ’ot in ’ere.”
“Yes, it is, but I am not inclined to sit alone in the dining room this evening.”
Charlotte sat fanning herself while Martha prepared bread and butter and arranged a little cold meat on a plate.
As Martha set the plate before her, Tabby mused, “I think the gentleman ’as ’is mind set on marriage.”
“Marriage? Mr. Nicholls? Good grief. Now who would want to be marrying that man?”
“Rumor ’as it that ’e’s got a lady waitin’ back in Ireland.”
“Oh, is that what they’re saying?”
“Stands to reason, miss. Mr. Grant brought ’is bride back from ’is ’ome in Essex.”
“Only because none of our Yorkshire families was good enough for him.” She took a sip of her tea and added brightly, “Well, maybe Mr. Nicholls will get married and remain in Ireland, and relieve us all of his intolerable presence.”
They had already said evening prayers and their father had gone up to bed when she heard her sisters come in. They were quiet and spoke in whispers, but the dogs made a racket in the kitchen, whining and padding around beneath the table while Emily mixed up some cold porridge to feed them. Charlotte put down her sewing and went into the kitchen.
“I suppose you’ll want something to eat,” Charlotte said.
“Oh no, we had tea with the Heatons at Ponden Hall,” Anne replied. They were both windblown and full of high spirits.
“We went all the way to Wycoller,” Emily said. Emily was a fearless walker of incredible stamina, and she would strike out into the high, treeless moors, across heath and gorse and streams, as far across the tops as she could go, returning only when the last tinge of light had left the sky. She rarely told them where she had gone or what she had seen, but she might show them a drawing she had made along the way. Once she came home with a wounded hawk, which she nursed back to health and named Nero.
“Look what we brought back from the Heatons’ library.” Anne pointed to a small stack of books on the chair. Then she pulled two oranges out of her skirt pockets and said with a smile, “And these too!”
“That’s very kind of them,” Charlotte said as she closed the kitchen door. Then, speaking in a whisper, she added, “Emily, dearest, I know it’s very difficult to tie you down in such delightful weather, but I do wish you would finish your fair copy of your novel. Anne and I have both finished ours, and we can’t submit ours without yours.”
Emily gave no reply. She disappeared to the scullery with a bowl in each hand and the dogs at her feet. When she returned, she sat down next to Anne who had begun to peel the oranges.
“Sit down, Tally,” Anne said sweetly. “Let’s eat the oranges.”
Charlotte sat down opposite them, trying mightily to conceal her frustration.
“Mr. Nicholls has become a terrible nuisance,” she said. “He wants his holiday, which is rightfully due to him, but Papa won’t let him go until after his eye surgery, which must be done soon. Next month at the latest. And I would so hope to have our manuscripts all ready to submit by then.” She took the section of orange Anne offered her. Then she looked across the table to Emily and said, “How much longer will it take you to finish?”
Emily shrugged.
Charlotte said, “Well, I suppose Anne and I could submit our works without yours, but then—”
Anne cut in, alarmed: “Oh, Tally, we can’t do that. We’ve agreed to publish together. Three brothers and three volumes.”
Emily, sucking the juice from an orange section, turned to Anne with a sly look. “I don’t think she wants to be associated with my novel.”
Charlotte started. “Emily, that’s false.”
“You said it gave you nightmares.”
“Well, it did. There are some very violent and lurid scenes.”
“But nightmares? Come, Charlotte, that’s so affected.”
“They’re all such lost souls—Heathcliff is so heartless and cruel.”
“Q
uite.” Emily finished off the last section of her orange and licked her fingers.
“And Cathy …” Charlotte added. “I just can’t imagine what the readers will make of her. She’s quite unlike any heroine in any book I’ve ever read.”
“You prefer slavish, groveling sorts of women.”
“I suppose I do.”
“I should not like to be ruled by any man.”
“Oh, I should. But he must have a good and kind heart beneath his fierce façade.”
“Like your Monsieur Heger.”
Charlotte was surprised to discover how painful it was to hear his name voiced again.
“Yes. Like Monsieur Heger.”
“Do you still write to him?”
Charlotte shook her head. It was the first time in more than a year that Emily had made a reference to Heger. She knew the truth—had always known—but she kept Charlotte’s secrets absolutely, like she kept her own.
The candle was burning down, throwing a flickering light on their faces. Outside, night had fallen and the shadows had deepened, cooling the air.
Emily said, “I’ve a new poem rolling around in my head. It’s quite absorbed all my thoughts, and I can think of nothing else.”
Then she yawned and began removing the combs and pins from her hair. The dogs had finished their dinner and crawled beneath the table and collapsed. Emily, looking down, gave Keeper a nudge with her bare foot.
“Come on, boy. To bed.”
Charlotte said nothing more to coerce Emily to finish the last bit of tedious work to ready her novel for publication. She knew Emily could not be persuaded by reason or threat, or anything in between.
Several days later Charlotte found her sister sitting in the shade of the cherry tree, reading a book, with Keeper’s huge head cradled in her lap.
“You are quite good at hiding, dearest. Where’s Anne?”
“Gone to the market with Martha,” Emily replied, her nose still in her book.