Romancing Miss Bronte

by Juliet Gael

  “What duplicity! Slithering about here like a sly, cunning snake, worming his way into our family! We trusted him, and he has betrayed us! That’s typical of his sort of lowly, conniving Irishman. They get what they want by deceit and lies. You know why he wants you, don’t you? For your money. Why, do you realize what this means? I can’t trust him! My own curate! He’s useless to me now! Totally useless!

  “How can he possibly think himself worthy of you! Him! He has nothing. No money, no property, no situation. He’s a lowly curate, and a mediocre one at that! Why, there’s nothing exceptional about the man! Nothing! He’s an intellectual pygmy! To believe himself worthy of my daughter! Worthy of my daughter!”

  She withstood his rage with outward calm. Meek, subservient, she flinched inwardly at the blows to Arthur’s dignity and seethed at the injustice done to his name. Few people knew the degree of rage of which her father was capable. Blood swelled his neck and his temples; he had the look of a man pulsing with hatred.

  If it were not for her father’s poor health—the constant fear of rising blood pressure—she would have spoken up to defend Arthur’s honor and his goodness. Instead, she listened, clutching the candle in her hand and trying to keep her own temper under control.

  He did not even ask if she had any feelings for Arthur. It never occurred to him that she might care.

  “I shall write him a reply in the morning.”

  “A clear refusal that he cannot possibly misinterpret. He’s a thick-skulled man, Charlotte. You shall make it clear that there is no hope. Not a dram. Ever.”

  “I shall make it quite clear.”

  “And that he must never repeat these overtures.”

  She gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “You will show me the letter before you send it to him.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “You will show me the letter!” he bellowed. “If it is not firm enough I shall add my own thoughts at the bottom!”

  Charlotte wanted to throw something at him.

  She spun on her heels and left the room.

  “Charlotte!” he cried. But she was racing up the stairs to her room. She slammed the door and turned the key.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  My dear Miss Brontë,

  I sense that there was another hand behind your letter—or perhaps eyes over your shoulder—as you wrote it.

  The news has traveled quickly. John Brown met me with murderous glances this morning when I came back from teaching my class. His wife seems frightened of me, or perhaps she is only reluctant to show any kindness to me for fear of his temper.

  And yet, if they vilify me, it is for expressing the most sincere, tender, and profound attachment.

  I know you well enough to avoid any hint of affectation in my letters to you; besides, I would not be capable of it. Being neither poet nor artist, I have nothing but the most ordinary ability to express something that is to me quite extraordinary.

  It is not easy to bare one’s soul with the pen knowing that the words will be scrutinized, balanced, and weighed by one who has earned the highest order of praise in the art of words. Therefore, I will make every effort to keep my prose simple and straightforward—although there is nothing simple about my feelings toward you.

  Until recently I have played only a small role in your life, and at times my very presence has been uncongenial to you. I am quite aware of your antipathy toward certain of my views, specifically my intolerance for dissenting religious factions. Those matters have often been a sticking point between the two of us: that I prefer to maintain a social distance from dissenters may appear to you to be extreme and narrow-minded, but I should deem myself an insufferable hypocrite should I pretend to take pleasure in the company of those who seek the destruction of God’s Holy Church.

  Yet, by some miracle, some Grace of God, over the past few years I began to sense a change in you. I waited for the slightest encouragement—sometimes I thought I caught a glimpse of it. A soft word, a willingness to engage me in pleasant conversation, a certain sensitivity toward my feelings. You seemed less inclined to the old mockery and contentiousness of the past. On occasion, you even thought to share some humorous anecdote with me. To any ordinary acquaintance, these are mere signs of civility—but to one in love, they kindled a tiny flame of hope in my heart.

  The trials and tribulations you have suffered made you only more precious in my sight. So many times these past few years I have watched you come and go. When you departed, I would lose hope of ever having you. When you returned, hope would return. I know that homecoming is no longer joyous to you, as it was in the past. And yet, for me, your presence is the light that brightens even the darkest days.

  I am at a loss as how to proceed. My affection for you will not waver. It is not a small thing to feel so deeply.

  I remain your devoted friend

  Arthur Bell Nicholls

  Haworth, December 15th

  Dear Nell,

  I enclose a note which has left on my mind a feeling of deep concern.

  This note—you will see—is from Mr. Nicholls. I know not whether you have ever observed him specially when staying here recently—your perception in these matters is generally quick enough—too quick I have sometimes thought. Yet as you never said anything, I restrained my own dim misgivings. What Papa has seen or guessed I will not inquire—though I may conjecture. He has minutely noticed all Mr. Nicholls’s low spirits—all his threats of expatriation—all his symptoms of impaired health—noticed them with little sympathy and much indirect sarcasm. On Monday evening Mr. N was here to tea. I vaguely felt—without clearly seeing—as without seeing I have felt for some time—the meaning of his constant looks and strange, feverish restraint. After tea I withdrew to the dining room as usual. As usual Mr. N sat with Papa till between eight and nine o’clock. I then heard him open the parlor door as if going. I expected the clash of the front door—He stopped in the passage, he tapped, like lightning it flashed on me what was coming. He entered—he stood before me. What his words were—you can guess, his manner—you can hardly realize—nor can I forget it. Shaking from head to foot, looking deadly pale, speaking low, vehemently yet with difficulty—he made me for the first time feel what it costs a man to declare affection where he doubts response.

  I think I half-led, half-put him out of the room. When he was gone I immediately went to Papa and told him what had taken place. Agitation and Anger disproportionate to the occasion ensued—if I had loved Mr. N and had heard such epithets applied to him as were used—it would have transported me past my patience—as it was my blood boiled with a sense of injustice—but Papa worked himself into a state not to be trifled with—the veins of his temples started up like whipcord—and his eyes became suddenly bloodshot—I made haste to promise that Mr. Nicholls should on the morrow have a distinct refusal.

  I wrote yesterday and got this note. There is no need to add to this statement any comment—Papa’s vehement antipathy to the bare thought of anyone thinking of me as a wife—and Mr. Nicholls’s distress—both give me pain. Attachment to Mr. N—you are aware I never entertained—but the poignant pity inspired by his state on Monday evening—by the hurried revelation of his sufferings for many months—is something galling and irksome. That he cared something for me—and wanted me to care for him—I have long suspected—but I did not know the degree or strength of his feelings.

  “Good grief, man, what’s happened?”

  Sutcliffe Sowden found Arthur huddled in a dark corner of a public house in Hebden Bridge. A nearly empty glass of ale sat before him on the beer-stained table.

  “My landlady said you were here. Why didn’t you go in and wait for me at home? By Jove, you’re blue in the face. Where’s your hat? Come on. Get up. Come over here by the fire.”

  The fire had been allowed to burn out and Sowden called to the server.

  “We don’t burn a fire midday, Reverend,” he was told by the woman who came out from behind t
he bar.

  “Then I’ll pay you for your wood. This man’s ill.”

  When they had settled near the fireplace, Arthur reached inside his coat and withdrew two letters. He handed them to Sowden.

  “One is from her. The other from her father. You will see for yourself which is which.”

  When he had read them, Sowden looked up at Arthur in astonishment.

  “I find this shocking. Shocking. To think how diligently you’ve served him over the years and then have him accuse you so cruelly and unjustly.”

  Arthur looked miserable. His eyes were bloodshot and the color had drained from his face. “I know quite well that as clergymen we have the precious trust of the families we serve,” he said soberly, “and that Mr. Brontë feels I have betrayed that trust. A respectable suitor would have made his intentions clear from the outset. But what was I to do, Sowden? I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. I didn’t come here looking to marry one of his daughters. I didn’t even plan to stay here, to tell you the truth. Besides, I know quite well his opinion of me. My only hope was to turn to her directly.”

  “Look, he can’t mean these things. You know how fathers are. It’s his pride. And Mr. Brontë is a very proud man. He only wants the best for his child. Just give him time to come to his senses.”

  “It’s not him—it’s not his letter that so distresses me. It’s hers. You see? Even without loving me she is kind and good to me, not proud like him. Even though she says she can’t return my feelings, she must have a grain of affection for me, somewhere, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not good at this sort of thing, Nicholls. Women rarely say what they really mean.”

  “If she would only stand up to him, there might be a chance.”

  “Oh, now, I wouldn’t count on that happening. She’s a dutiful daughter. You wouldn’t have her defy him, would you?”

  The glimmer of light in his eyes vanished. “No.” He shook his head. “Most definitely not.”

  Arthur buried his face in his hands. His strong, square features seemed incongruous with the misery that flowed from his eyes when he lifted them to Sowden’s.

  “I can’t stay here. I can’t go on like I did. The very thought of seeing her—I just come undone, Sowden. I can’t help it. I can’t go back to the way I was before.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I shall resign. I’ll go away. Far away. Someplace where there is nothing to remind me of her.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll apply for a missionary post. Africa.”

  “Oh, good grief, man, not Africa. Don’t be absurd. That’s a death sentence for sure. No one survives Africa.”

  “All the better for me.”

  “My cousin is in the Australian colonies. Rather likes it there. Of course he ministers to the colonials. Doesn’t set foot in the bush.”

  Haworth, 18 December

  Ellen dear,

  You ask how Papa demeans himself to Mr. N. I only wish you were here to see Papa in his present mood: you would know something of him. He just treats him with a hardness not to be bent—and a contempt not to be propitiated.

  The two have had no interview as yet: all has been done by letter. Papa wrote—I must say—a most cruel note to Mr. Nicholls on Wednesday. In his state of mind and health (for the poor man is horrifying Martha’s mother by entirely rejecting his meals) I felt that the blow must be parried, and I thought it right to accompany the pitiless dispatch by a line to the effect that—while Mr. N must never expect me to reciprocate the feeling he had expressed—yet at the same time I wished to disclaim participating in sentiments calculated to give him pain; and I exhorted him to maintain his courage and spirits. On receiving the two letters, he set off from home—I believe to visit his friend Mr. Sowden in Hebden Bridge. Yesterday came the enclosed brief epistle.

  You must understand that a good share of Papa’s anger arises from the idea—not altogether groundless—that Mr. N has behaved with disingenuousness in so long concealing his aim—forging that Irish fiction et cetera. I am afraid also that Papa thinks a little too much about his want of money; he says the match would be a degradation—that I should be throwing myself away—that he expects me, if I marry at all, to do very differently; in short, his manner of viewing the subject is on the whole far from being one in which I can sympathize. My own objections arise from the sense of incongruity in feelings, tastes—principles.

  “Charlotte! Charlotte!”

  She came to the top of the stairs and leaned over the railing.

  “Come down here! I’ve had another letter from that man! You must see this!”

  Charlotte came tripping down the stairs, holding her skirts. Martha came to the kitchen door with a knife in her hands, smelling of onions and hoping for drama.

  “Go back to work,” Charlotte scolded as she scurried past into the dining room.

  Her father stopped his pacing to wave a letter under her nose.

  “Look at this! This is quite typical of him. Deceitful to the last.”

  “May I read it please?” Charlotte held out her hand. Her eyes flashed in annoyance.

  “He’s changed his mind! He resigned and now he’s changed his mind. That vile scoundrel will not let—”

  She held up a hand. “Please, Papa, may I read it.”

  It was brief, a few lines. A softness floated over her countenance as she read; her father didn’t notice.

  She looked up. “This is a good sign, Papa. If he wants to withdraw his resignation, it means there’s a chance for things to return to normal.”

  “It means no such thing! It means he’s going to lurk around the parsonage scheming and behaving like the underhanded rascal that he is.”

  “That’s quite unjust. Mr. Nicholls never once conducted himself with disrespect toward me.”

  “Well, I won’t do it. He’s resigned and he must go. Unless he gives me a solemn oath—in writing—that he will never again broach this obnoxious subject either to me or to you! That is the only condition upon which I will have him back.”

  “That’s most unfair.”

  “Unfair? Unfair?! Why, it will be proof that his sentiments are false and calculated for his own gain. If he renounces you in order to take back his post, you will have your proof of his shallowness.”

  But Arthur would not cede to her father’s blackmail. He simply did not respond to the demands. Charlotte felt sadly triumphant. At least he had not betrayed his love for her—worthless as that may have been to everyone except himself.

  Dear Ellen,

  You ask about Mr. N. He has never accepted the conditions Papa demanded to withdraw his resignation, so I feel it will all end in his departure. Nobody pities him but me. Martha is bitter against him; John Brown says he should like to shoot him. He continues restless and ill—he carefully performs the occasional duty—but does not come near the church to preach, procuring a substitute every Sunday.

  I am surprised that you take Papa’s side. You who were always seeing a match there, and now that it has come to pass you think it would be below my station. Indeed, our tastes and interests are oceans apart—he is quite indifferent to those things I cherish, and I cannot pretend that he is at my level in intellectual matters. But Dear Nell—without loving him—I don’t like to think of him suffering in solitude, and wish him anywhere so that he were happier. He and Papa have never met or spoken yet.

  In the midst of this turmoil Charlotte received an invitation from Mrs. Smith to visit. Smith, Elder was preparing for a speedy publication of Villette, and George urged her to come to London to tackle the proofs. Her father encouraged her to accept. Charlotte supposed it was simply to get her out of the way.

  A week later, Charlotte found herself at the Smiths’ splendid new house in Gloucester Terrace, sitting in her room with the proof sheets spread out on her desk. A crisis at work kept George at the office until late in the evenings, and she had a good deal of time to herself. She spent her afternoons
visiting asylums, prisons, and orphanages and avoided society.

  It was a program greatly to her liking, motivated by the hope of finding in those wretched halls an inspiration for her next book, although George’s mother and sisters thought her tastes a bit too gloomy. She saw Harriet Martineau but did not even tell Sir James Kay-Shuttleworth that she was in London.

  She kept herself busy enough and might have put all the business about Arthur out of her head were it not for the frequent letters from her father with accounts of Arthur’s miseries.

  Charlotte was not eager to leave London. She was disappointed that George could find so little time for her, but she could see that the crisis at Cornhill was grave.

  “You mustn’t be alarmed, dear,” Mrs. Smith reassured her with a brave face. “Just the inevitable consequences of that unfortunate business with his partner. George has inherited a rather untidy financial situation and he insists on setting it straight without resorting to drastic measures, if you know what I mean. But it will all get sorted out. I have the utmost faith in my boy.”

  Sometimes George left home at nine in the morning and spent the entire night in his office dictating lengthy business letters to his clerks to be dispatched the next morning to accounts in India or Hong Kong. He would appear at breakfast pale and worn, trying his best to conceal his worries. He had even been forced to abandon his habitual early morning rides in Rotten Row. George’s sisters and mother tended to his every need with solemn concern, in the way of women who depend upon the men they love for their survival. Their devotion moved Charlotte deeply, but the bond of family was one from which she was excluded. Although their courtesy to her never wavered, she felt herself more isolated than ever before.

  But there was something else, an uneasiness that preyed on her mind. She was nagged by the thought that George was avoiding her or, at the very best, that he was secretly relieved to have a legitimate excuse to stay away. Their candid conversations had been replaced by dry talk about business. Charlotte wondered if he had been disturbed by the way she had portrayed him—and her feelings for him—in Villette, but she could not be sure of it. More and more, she became convinced that their friendship was not the true one she had first imagined, where sympathies were real and would outlast circumstances. It was an intimacy predicated on expediency. Were she to fail him as an author, the friendship would cease.