by Juliet Gael
He gave a sort of relieved sigh and kissed the top of her head. “Well, we shan’t need to talk about it again.”
Charlotte felt an instant liking for Joseph. He was waiting for them the next morning just below the college’s massive bell tower—a pale, slim figure with spectacles and an appealing air of distraction. He slouched in the shadow, reading a book, his long hair ruffled by the wind; at the sound of their approaching steps he squinted into the bright sunlight, and then he stuffed the small volume in his pocket and rushed forward to greet them.
With Charlotte he seemed mildly starstruck—which they all noted with tacit amusement—and he was clearly relieved when his sister began asking about his examination.
“I think I performed passably well,” he replied modestly. “The texts were poetry. Virgil and Dante.”
“Joseph’s had three firsts since he’s been at Trinity,” Mary Anna said with quiet pride.
Arthur took command of their little party, shuttling them from chapel to museum, to dining and examination hall. The entire setting thrilled Charlotte to the core; here she was walking the green lawns and cobbled quads of Trinity College in Dublin, breathing the exalted air of an exclusively masculine and privileged domain. As Arthur recounted anecdotes of his student days, Charlotte was moved by a quiet sense of irony. There flashed through her mind a vivid memory of Emily, Anne, and herself as children gathered in her father’s study, listening to Branwell recite Virgil in his flawless Latin, and she recalled how she had once dreamed of her brother walking halls such as these at Cambridge or Oxford. She would have visited him. She would have stood in the ladies’ gallery of the halls to hear lectures delivered by great men, and sat in the chapel listening to strains of the organ and the glorious choir.
Branwell and his dreams were buried, but she was here with Arthur. It seemed that her own dream had come true in the way that dreams often do, in their own time and in a manner quite unexpected.
When they came to the old library, the spectacular long gallery with towering walls of ancient manuscripts, it was Joseph who stepped to her side and picked up the narrative. As she listened to him speak in a hushed voice, Charlotte could not refrain from making comparisons to Branwell. There was the same impressive command of English, the flashes of brilliance and erudition, the passion for poetry. But Joseph Bell had been blessed with a sense of discipline and a steady temperament that left no doubt that he would succeed where her brother had failed.
When Arthur attempted to usher her down an aisle to show her a section of philosophical volumes, she pulled him aside and whispered, “I would so like to have liberty to take this in my own way, Arthur.”
“What? You would forgo my commentary?” he teased.
“It would mean a good deal to me to have a few moments to myself.”
“I understand. I shall wait for you here.”
“Thank you.”
“You won’t get lost, I pray.”
“If I do, I’m sure you’ll find me.”
“Arthur said this would give you pleasure,” Charlotte remarked as she withdrew a small package from the corner of the carriage and presented it to Joseph. It was evening, and they had just pulled up in front of his lodgings.
He gave her a wide-eyed smile. “Are these your poems?”
“Yes. I confess I didn’t know until today that you wrote verse yourself. This was the first thing we published. My efforts are quite juvenile, I’m afraid, and Anne’s—well, we indulged our sister out of affection. But Emily’s poems are of considerable merit.”
“Ellis Bell’s novel was the work of a genius,” he said quietly.
“You’ve read Wuthering Heights?”
“Oh, madam, I’ve read it twice.”
Then, with an impetuous kiss on her cheek and a murmured word of gratitude, Joseph Bell bade good-bye to all of them and bounded from the carriage.
Chapter Thirty-one
The road to Banagher took them west along the lush green banks of the Grand Canal, past bogs and morasses, and fields of grazing cattle. Night was just falling as they drove through tall wrought-iron gates and up a rutted avenue lined with leafy linden trees. At the end, faintly outlined against the gloom of the woods, stood Cuba House—a great old Georgian pile of the sort built by the gentry in the previous century.
“There’s the old home,” Alan said as the drive curved and the house came into sight.
Charlotte turned to Arthur with a look of wide-eyed wonder.
“Why, Arthur, it’s splendid,” she whispered. She reached for his hand, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of vindication. She wished her father could see this. And Ellen. Her father and Ellen, who had convinced her that she was stepping down in the world.
“Gardens are looking fine, aren’t they?” Alan said in an offhand manner.
“Very fine,” Arthur replied.
“Narcissus gets slower every year. Don’t know how he manages to keep up the grounds, but he does.”
Harriette Bell was a formidable-looking matron with marked masculine brows and heavily pomaded hair that shone in the candlelight like the lustrous jet cameo fixed to her snowy-white fichu.
“My dear aunt—you must forgive the inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience? Pray what do you mean, Arthur?” she said, holding her cheek up to him for a kiss.
“You weren’t expecting us for several more days.”
“But we’re quite prepared. You did send a message, my dear.”
“Which was quite unnecessary,” Alan said as he passed his hat and gloves to the servant. “Arthur’s such a stickler about those things.”
Lucy came gaily tripping down the wide stairs and flew up to them in her summer dress of creamy rose-sprigged cotton, aware that all eyes had turned her way.
“You’re such a noodle, Arthur,” she said, tugging him away from her mother and giving him a peck on the cheek. “Mama’s been on tenterhooks for days and everyone’s been holding their breath, so it’s really much to our relief that you’ve arrived early rather than late. Hello! I’m Lucy!”
“Lucy, my wife, Charlotte Brontë Nicholls,” he said proudly.
There was more commotion as Arthur broke away to greet the household servants who hovered near the kitchen door, bobbing and curtsying and beaming with joy. One or two of them whispered words of congratulations and threw furtive, deferential glances at the tiny, fragile-looking lady who stood awkwardly at the center of attention.
“What’s this about your bride not being well?” Harriette Bell asked her nephew in a commanding voice. “I gather Arthur has quite exhausted you—he’s inclined to do things a bit too thoroughly.”
“I never complain about my husband’s thoroughness,” Charlotte said quietly. “He arranged for such marvelous excursions in Wales. We saw absolutely breathtaking sights.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Nicholls, you are pale. And you, Arthur, you’re thin as a rake. What have you done to yourself? Well, I suppose it’s to be expected—what with all the excitement. But you’re home now, and you shall be well cared for. You must be bone-tired. We shall have a light supper and all go straight off to bed. No, Lucy, I’ll not have a word of dissent.”
The rooms were spacious and lofty, and the drawing room and dining room elegantly appointed, but as the maidservant led them down the wide, empty hall Charlotte suspected that they had not the means to furnish it as grandly as it deserved. Charlotte was accustomed to close, snug spaces, and their bedroom on the ground floor seemed vast and cold, with only an ancient four-poster bed, a vanity, and a table and chairs by the fireplace. A turf fire was already blazing in the wide old chimney, and the maidservant lit candles on the mantel while the coachman brought in their trunks.
Here, her meager reserve of energy depleted, Charlotte collapsed. Arthur was full of remorse.
“I should have brought you here directly,” he apologized the next morning as he sat beside her on the bed. “It was quite selfish of me.”
“I do so dis
like being weak, Arthur,” she murmured. “Why am I not well and strong like other people?”
“Hush,” he said, and he kissed her and brushed her hair back from her face.
For two days, Mrs. Bell nursed Charlotte on vegetable and beef broth and a good dose of firm kindness, sitting quietly by her bedside every afternoon with her cat and her sewing basket. Mary Anna and Lucy gathered flowers from the garden and arranged them in cut-glass vases on the tea table, and Joseph lent her books of verse to read. Arthur would blow in and out during the day—followed by his dogs, which would lope up to her and sniff around her head and then curl up on the hearthrug, waiting on their master. During the day he smelled of horses, hot sun, and wind, and when he came to bed in the evening there was the faint odor of cigars. He abandoned his clerical collar and most days set off wearing only a light summer shirt and a straw hat.
“There could be a little something for Arthur if he chose to take it,” his aunt said one afternoon, “but he has always insisted that the modest income should go to his cousins and myself. You mustn’t find it odd that I speak so openly to you. You are Arthur’s wife now, and you should know these things. I doubt Arthur’s told you himself.”
“I confess, he has not.”
“Because he has always put us first. He’s a selfless man when it comes to material things. But he has a wife now—and perhaps soon will have a family of his own. If you should ever find yourselves in distress, you must apply to us. We will do what we can. I would hate to think that he has deprived himself and his family of any comfort on our account.”
“Mrs. Bell, I assure you, that will not be necessary. You have merely revealed to me another small proof of my husband’s goodness. I can only admire and respect his choice.”
“Well, things will be easier when the children are all grown. My boy Joseph shows every promise of doing well for himself—I don’t fret about him—and Lucy has a serious suitor. I expect we’ll announce an engagement soon. But I doubt my dear Mary Anna will ever attract a husband. Arthur is always anxious about her future.”
“But she is so pretty.”
“Yes, she is, with a heart as pure as her eyes are blue. And men are always quite drawn to her, until she walks across a room, and then, well … I’ve noticed that they turn away and ignore her after that. But then, we each have our burdens to bear, as God sees fit. He will give us the strength to bear up, of that I’m sure.” She snipped off a thread and held her work up to the light. “I say this only to reassure you that you have, dear madam, the most loyal and devoted of husbands. When Mr. Bell passed from this world, Alan was at university in Edinburgh, and Arthur insisted that his elder brother’s education should come before his own, so he gave up his studies and came home to take care of us. Lucy was only seven, and Mary Anna not even nine. Arthur is very protective—as I’m sure you’ve discovered. It’s in his nature. Eventually he returned to Trinity and finished his degree. It must have been very difficult for him, having taken all those years off, but he never once uttered a word of regret to any of us. Arthur’s a bit of a surprise, isn’t he? He always strikes one as so fierce and stiff on the outside, and he’s certainly not without his faults, but he’s got a heart of gold. He’s the favorite around here, you’ll see.”
It was a refrain Charlotte heard all throughout the week. She took to making inquiries whenever she had the opportunity—the housekeeper or the old man they called Narcissus, who pottered in the flower beds beneath her windowsill every morning.
“Sir, have you seen my husband this morning?”
She stood at the bedroom window in her dressing gown, looking out onto the lawn glistening with dew. The air had a clean, loamy smell.
“Aye, ma’am, he’s gone off riding with his young cousin.”
Charlotte’s stomach sank. “Which cousin is that?”
“Master Joseph,” he said as he set down his wheelbarrow, shooting her a wary look from beneath his bushy white brows. “The young mistress don’t ride, what with her crippled legs, and Miss Lucy goes out only in the carriage.” He took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his bald head.
“When will they return?”
“Can’t tell you. He’s a great one for the outdoors, Master Arthur is. Outdoors from dawn till dusk. And he’s always doin’ for others. Not got a lazy bone in his body, that one.”
“Have you been with the family long, Narcissus?”
“I was the Reverend Bell’s manservant back when he was a bachelor.”
“So you’ve known my husband a long while.”
“Since he first came to live here. A rugged lad. Always gettin’ in fights, but for good cause. Took it upon himself to defend the weak ones. I’ve always said the lady who wins his heart is a fortunate lass indeed, for there’s not a better gentleman in all the country, if ye don’t mind me sayin’ so, madam.”
“No, Narcissus, I don’t mind at all.”
She had never imagined that marriage would change her in so many subtle ways. She did not shed her anxieties, but the sting of critical glances and insensitive words was mitigated with Arthur by her side. As a newly married couple, they had social visits to make in the neighborhood, and her aversion to meeting strangers would have to be overcome. It was a duty she could not avoid; to snub her husband’s friends would be unthinkable. Nor could she retreat into a corner and speak in monosyllables, as she had done in London when she’d felt overwhelmed by a situation. She had made a solemn pledge to herself before their wedding: Whatever he exacts, you force yourself to perform.
But she had not understood the transformative power of complicity, the protection afforded by a true and selfless love. Arthur would no more allow her to flounder in a drawing room than he would abandon her to the depths of the sea.
Every day they drove out to call on neighbors—sometimes alone, other times accompanied by his cousins or his aunt. They went on picnics and excursions to distant lakes; they visited friends in outlying country homes. What had once been intolerable now became a higher order of business to her. Her fame was rarely acknowledged in the homes they visited; instead, they saw her as the fortunate wife of a well-liked and highly respected man, and Charlotte began to prefer it this way. As a wife she took pleasure in people and things that she had once dismissed as foolish, and at some point along the way the firmly held notion that she was insignificant and plain began to fade away.
Arthur was impatient to have her to himself again, and at the end of the week he announced that they were setting off for a watering place on the west coast.
“It’s terribly uncivilized out there,” Lucy claimed.
“But you must not miss it,” Joseph replied. “It is glorious beyond words, Mrs. Nicholls. You’ll never see a finer coast.”
“I wish you might stay longer, my dears. But I do understand,” his aunt said.
Mary Anna regretted their departure the most, although she protested the least.
They followed the Shannon to Limerick and then struck off across wild, uninhabited country to a remote spot on the southwest coast, landing in a resort town nestled in a deeply curving bay girdled with stupendous cliffs. Their accommodations were of the most primitive sort and the food appallingly bad, but they were more inclined to laugh about any shortcomings than complain. The coast here was bold and grand, with sandy shores to the south; to the north rose iron-black cliffs that dropped precipitously into the raging Atlantic. They spent the daylight hours exploring the outdoors and their nights in deep, untroubled sleep.
In the days that followed, as their sexual intimacy increased, this last and most powerful bond slowly began to deepen.
One night Charlotte stood before a looking glass brushing her hair while Arthur sat in a chair behind her, a map and train schedule spread across his knees. Gazing at her reflection, her eyes were drawn to the dark buds of her nipples faintly visible through her light muslin nightdress. She was astonished to feel desire creep into her stomach, low between her legs. With a furtive glance at Arthur,
she lay down the brush and raised her hand to her breast, lightly grazing the nipple with the back of her hand. A tentative gesture, experimental.
“Arthur?” she whispered.
He looked up. “Yes?”
“I look at my image in the mirror and wonder that you should find anything that fascinates you.”
He put down the map and came to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her and fixing his eyes on her reflection.
“The matter has always been entirely beyond my control, my dear,” he said solemnly. “I have only to look at you and it sparks something in me—I find you irresistible.”
“Irresistible?”
He kissed her neck and allowed his hands to roam over her body.
“Entirely,” he murmured.
She had steeled herself against ever anticipating any pleasure. But she knew at that moment it was possible.
“Arthur,” she whispered, closing her eyes. She took his hand and moved it between her legs, quite forgetting who she was and how she should be.
They traveled through seaport towns with islets packed with dense forests, through villages set against spectacular mountain peaks and deep gorges, and Charlotte gave up trying to keep a record of the places they had been. Some parts were beautiful beyond anything she had imagined, and it all became intertwined with a progression of feeling for her husband, feelings so deeply private and fragile that she would only hint of them in her letters home to friends or family.
“Much pleasure has sprung from all this,” she wrote to Ellen, “and more, perhaps, from the kind and ceaseless protection which has ever surrounded me, and made traveling a different matter to me from what it has heretofore been.”
As for Arthur, by the end of their honeymoon he had gained twelve pounds and reclaimed his hale and hearty physique. That she should be the cause of this transformation was a subject of quiet wonder to Charlotte.