“I did not know that,” Weightman said. “It only adds to my admiration, for Wilberforce was my boyhood hero.”
“He had a great deal of sympathy for the poor people of England,” Patrick continued. “He called for relief, and provided it at his own estate. But he had no sympathy for agitation. He witnessed the bloodshed in France, you know.”
“I would be the last to condone violence,” Weightman said. “I am as good a Christian, I hope, as I have the strength for. But Wilberforce was of an older generation, your father’s generation. And though he faced with open eyes the terrible condition of the African slaves, he had not yet seen the horror of what our English workers now face. Poor they were, in his day, but with the means to tend crops and animals and gather fuel. Even in these textile districts, the handloom was in the cottage with them. Now they are herded into factories and chained to power looms. Those who keep home looms do so in horrible conditions. We raise relief, fuel and blankets and oats, and next year we shall do it again. And the year after. They die out of hand all the while.”
Patrick feared Weightman’s direction.
“Not just men,” Weightman continued. “Women. Children. Working fourteen hours in a mill, six days a week. They lose fingers and limbs to the power looms. They breathe poisonous fumes that destroy their lungs. Eat nothing but oatcakes day after day. My God, a potato is a treat. Their drinking water is tainted. They die because no one cares.”
Patrick stirred. “Have you an answer to your latest letter to London about sanitary conditions?”
“I have not. I shall write again. I shall write again and again until someone comes to examine our situation. Or until the outcry is too great to ignore.” Weightman leaned forward. “But in the meantime, you and I bury them. Every day. It is the same with the dissenting pastors. And no one of the stature of Wilberforce speaks for our people in Parliament. If Wilberforce were a young man today, he would support the Chartists.”
“I think,” Patrick said, “it is unwise to speak for the dead. Yet I am not opposed to what you say, though I have thought the Chartists bold.”
“You have no objection if I continue to talk to them?”
Patrick studied the shining face of the boy who leaned toward him. His love overwhelmed him.
“No,” Patrick said. “I trust you.”
Weightman reached out and grasped the older man’s hands, the skin papery-thin. “Thank you,” he said. “I shall not trouble you again.”
William Weightman was invited, upon the suggestion of Patrick Brontë, to lecture at the Keighley Mechanics Institute. His subject was to be the classics, his primary field of study after theology, at Durham.
When he told the sisters over tea one day after a ramble on the moors, Charlotte cried, “Oh, I should love to hear your lecture! I know so little of the classics.”
“I should like it as well,” Anne added.
Emily sat silent and studied her teacup. Of course she wished to go, but she would not admit how much.
“It is unfair,” Charlotte continued, “that women are not thought to be suited for classical studies. That portion of our education is neglected.” She turned to Weightman. “You could supply our ignorance.”
“I think it would be splendid if you came to my lecture,” Weightman replied.
“What?” said Aunt Branwell, who had just entered the parlor. “What lecture?”
Charlotte said, “Mr. Weightman is giving a lecture on the classics next week at the Keighley Mechanics Institute. We would like to attend.”
“Of course you cannot,” Aunt Branwell said.
“But Aunt,” Charlotte cried, “we are quite used to walking that far!”
“Your father is no longer well enough to escort you there and back in a day.”
Emily was unable to keep silent, forced by the absurdity of the situation. “Father lectured in Keighley last month.”
“And because of his health and his years, a carriage was sent for him,” Aunt Branwell pointed out. “They will do no such thing for a strapping young man like Mr. Weightman.”
“We can walk with him,” Charlotte said. “He already escorts us on the moors.”
“He escorts you in the daytime,” Aunt Branwell said, “and that is quite controversial enough for me, even though your father allows it. It is something else to be out in the countryside late at night with a young man. Think of the scandal in the church if it were known. The parson’s daughters, caught out with the curate.”
Weightman burst out laughing. “Indeed, Miss Branwell, I should have my hands full with the lot of them.”
Emily laughed and Aunt Branwell looked scandalized. But she also harbored a soft spot for the young man, who never failed, when he saw her, to take her hand and bow over it. He was also inclined, at more informal moments in the parsonage, to tease her in a flirtatious manner, which caused her to giggle. So she simply said, “It is, I am afraid, impossible, Mr. Weightman. I hope the size of your audience will be adequate without my nieces.”
“It is not the size of his audience,” Emily cried. “It is the loss to us!”
Anne said, “You shall have to teach us in absentia, Mr. Weightman. Perhaps you could be kind enough to share your lecture notes. What shall your subject be?”
“I plan to speak about the plays of Sophocles,” he replied. “Particularly Antigone.”
“Was Antigone not a woman?” Emily asked.
“Indeed. A strong one.”
“I should like to hear that lecture,” she said, her voice tinged with regret.
“I would as well,” Charlotte said, casting a reproving look at her aunt. “Perhaps Papa will allow it.”
“He will not,” Aunt Branwell said. She was confident she would carry the day. She had long ago judged, by now and then threatening to return to Cornwall, when Patrick Brontë would give in and humor her for the sake of her oversight of his household. “Not without sufficient escort.”
Weightman looked thoughtful but said nothing more, and the subject was dropped.
Three days later an invitation arrived at the parsonage. Mr. Theodore Dury, the married curate of Keighley, wished the Brontë sisters to join his family for tea before the lecture by Mr. William Weightman at the Keighley Mechanics Institute. After the lecture, he proposed to escort the party back to Haworth. Due to the lateness of the hour, he hoped he might spend the night at the parsonage.
Patrick Brontë, who had seconded his sister-in-law’s objection to the visit to Keighley, emerged from his study to find his daughters dancing around the hallway while Aunt Branwell stood by, looking suitably perturbed.
“Oh, can we, can we, can we?” Charlotte, Emily, and Anne cried all together.
“Well,” Aunt Branwell said. She looked helplessly at Patrick. Then she threw up her hands. “Why on earth young women should wish to spend an afternoon and evening walking four miles and back in order to hear about some ancient heathen or the other, I shall never understand. But there is no objection now. Only”—she cast an aggrieved look at Patrick—“it shall be a late night waiting up.”
Patrick removed his spectacles and wiped them on his sleeve. “I think, Aunt, that Mr. Weightman has in this case provided what is needed. With Mr. Dury in tow, no one need wait up.”
“Still,” Aunt Branwell said, “there is hospitality to be provided.”
“I shall make all the arrangements beforehand,” Emily said. “We shall put Mr. Dury in Branwell’s room, and no one need wait up. Oh, please, Papa, please.”
“I have no objection,” Patrick replied. “I daresay my curate has proven himself as intrepid in arranging this endeavor as anything he has accomplished.”
“Oh, he is a blessing to you!” Charlotte cried. “And to Haworth. Soon, Keighley shall know his worth!” Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Dear Lord! Caroline Dury shall be present!”
Emily folded her arms across her chest and said, “Caroline Dury does exist, sister. The question is, shall you be there?”
>
Charlotte gave her usual swat to Emily’s arm. “Oh bother! Of course I shall be.”
Since Haworth sat high on the brow above Keighley, the walk down would be easy, but the return strenuous. The Brontë sisters ate a hearty early dinner and packed sandwiches for the way back, enough for Mr. Dury. They dressed for the February cold. Anne in particular was forced to assure her aunt that she would keep her scarf close about her neck and her bonnet tight upon her head. William Weightman assured Aunt Branwell he would offer Anne his arm for support. Charlotte was disappointed. But she put on a brave face and hoped William Weightman noticed her unselfishness.
The party set out in high spirits just after two in the afternoon. They cut across fields to avoid the mud of the roadway, picking their way past islands of brittle old snow and wandering sheep. Weightman carried a leather pack over his shoulder with the papers containing his talk and their sandwiches. Otherwise they were unencumbered. The conversation was much as it was on their walks upon the moors, discussions of books and politics and theology. Charlotte saw the landscape in a blur. She had been careful to pack her spectacles, but equally careful not to let Weightman see her in them. So she stumbled now and then, and caught his arm for assurance. That put her in a fine frame of mind.
“Tell us about your lecture,” she begged. “What are your major points, so that we shall be ahead of everyone else.”
“No, no, no,” Emily cried, “don’t make him repeat himself, sister! You shall double his effort. Let us hear his talk, and ask questions upon the return.”
Charlotte agreed and they continued on, pausing now and then to let Anne rest. But the Brontës grew more quiet and circumspect as Keighley parsonage came into view. It was of the same brown stone stained black with soot as the other buildings in the district, but larger and more imposing than their own home. Not unfamiliar, for they had been there with their father. Still their demeanor changed. Even as Weightman pounded upon the front door, they ducked their heads and gathered their cloaks about them. In the hallway they hesitated, for cries and laughter had greeted Weightman’s appearance. Two young women, Caroline Dury and her friend Sarah Sugden, the daughter of the wealthiest man in the district, descended upon Weightman. They dragged him into the parlor before he had time to speak. The Brontë sisters waited for a morsel of attention. It fell to Mrs. Dury to greet them and usher them into the parlor.
Caroline Dury and Sarah Sugden established William Weightman in the center of the sofa, and themselves upon either side. He glanced at the Brontës as they entered, a momentary sheepish—but also pleased—expression upon his face as if to say, What can I expect? Then he turned his attention back to the young women pelting him with questions from either side. Mrs. Dury took the Brontës’ cloaks and bonnets and led the sisters to chairs near the window. Anne and Charlotte settled at once, and remained silent. Charlotte looked particularly forlorn. She was careful to meet no one’s eye and directed all her attention to the smoothing of her skirt. Emily drew her chair as far back as she could, to a spot where she had a full view of the sofa without calling attention to herself. She observed the scene with amusement. Intelligent and free conversation in the open air was one thing. The silliness of a parlor was another.
The elder Durys were embarrassed that their daughter and her friend had forgotten the presence of other guests besides Weightman. But like many indulgent parents, they were unable to determine how to respond. Mrs. Dury thought her husband should take control of the conversation, but that good gentleman was somewhat of a daydreamer and lax in social situations. At last Mrs. Dury cleared her throat and announced, “Caroline, your other guests want refreshment.” This persuaded Caroline to recall her duties and pour tea for the Brontës, careful to show herself to the best advantage as she did so. But she was soon back beside Mr. Weightman and offering a tray of tea cakes. The tray was not passed to the Brontës until Weightman himself made a point of standing and offering it to each of the sisters and the elder Durys.
Caroline Dury was a pretty girl, small and dark with fine brown eyes. A sweet girl and enamored with eligible young men. As indeed she should be, for since her family was not possessed with much more wealth than the Brontës, she would have to rely upon her beauty and charm to catch a husband. Caroline had no expectations of a moneyed catch—a clergyman like her father would be acceptable. But Weightman held an especial attraction. Not only was he charming and good-looking, his family was well-off. Though he seemed to have no interest in his father’s money, he would assuredly inherit it someday. Caroline Dury sensed William Weightman to be the greatest catch she might aspire to in the West Riding.
There was a time when Caroline would not have invited Sarah Sugden to the parsonage when Weightman was visiting. Sarah, blond, buxom, and gregarious, was one of the great beauties of the district. Her father was a mill owner with a prominent rented pew in the church at Keighley. Under other conditions, she would not have considered the less well-endowed Caroline Dury as a friend. But neither girl possessed a close sister to confide in. Both were enamored of William Weightman, and so when they wished to speak of him, which was often, they found one another to be congenial company. Of course they knew they were competitors. But each thought the presence of the other would show off her own qualities to better advantage. And so their bond was strong, at least temporarily. It was the comradeship of gladiators.
Caroline Dury knew herself to be at a disadvantage, yet she was possessed of talents that stood her in good stead. Caroline was the better pianist and had as well a pleasant voice. Sarah Sugden possessed good looks and a well-rounded figure, but Caroline knew her way around a parsonage. Sarah had a considerable fortune. Still, Weightman would not lack resources of his own someday. He would be well settled, and had no need to grub for money when pursuing a wife. And his position in Haworth bespoke humility. Caroline knew herself to be humble. Sarah, on the other hand, assumed that her own wealth allowed her a certain hauteur. She would insult even her friends, from time to time, without realizing it. Caroline valued Sarah’s company particularly because her friend provided this contrast to Caroline’s own modesty.
Such a contrast was on display in the parlor of Keighley parsonage, for Sarah’s conversation, as usual, varied between insipid and conceited. Caroline hoped Weightman might note it. The only notice either took of the Brontë sisters, once they were handed their tea, was to lament the long walk from Haworth and to cast sidelong glances at the spattered state of the hems of the Brontë skirts. How extraordinary to make so long a journey by foot at this time of year.
“Did you not know the way would be muddy?” Sarah Sugden wondered aloud. The answer, of course, held little interest, and so when it was slow and spare in coming, was ignored.
Then Sarah used the topic to turn the focus back upon William Weightman.
“Mr. Weightman,” she ventured, “does not your father, since he has some means, retain horses and a carriage?” How flattering for a man, she thought as she spoke, to be made the center of attention.
“He has a four-in-hand,” Weightman replied.
Sarah did not notice that he spoke somewhat reluctantly. She clapped her hands. “Of course he would! Perhaps, if you come in great demand in Keighley as a result of your lecture, he shall supply you as well. Then you can make the journey with more ease.”
“I think not,” Weightman said politely. “Mr. Brontë and Mr. Dury do not have an equipage, nor does any clergyman in the district I am aware of.”
Sarah looked puzzled for a moment, but recovered her composure. Caroline sipped her tea and waited for her friend to hang herself.
Sarah plowed on, oblivious. “I understand why you wouldn’t want something as ostentatious as a Clarence. But why not a gig or a curricle for pastoral visits?” She clapped her hands in excitement. “Or even a phaeton once you are wed?”
Weightman was long in answering. Then, before he could form a polite response, Caroline Dury said in a low voice, “Perhaps he does not want to put on
airs.”
“Put on airs!” Sarah exclaimed. “Why is an equipage ‘putting on airs’ if it can be afforded? What an example to the district, what a thing to aspire to! Think of the excitement it would give the poorer children, to see it! Why not at least a horse, Mr. Weightman? Think how much more easily you might visit your far-flung parishioners. Some of them are quite extended and difficult to reach. The mill owners are building their homes further and further from Haworth these days.”
“Indeed they are,” Weightman observed.
The conversation died then, and Caroline was congratulating herself on her wisdom in keeping silent. Even Sarah had the sense to blush and return to her tea, to cover her surprise at the brevity of the curate’s response. Weightman took a sip from his own cup, a solemn expression on his face. But as he sipped, he raised his eyes and met the gaze of Emily Brontë. She had upon her face the look of one wandering in a zoo and watching the antics of some exotic species.
Weightman could not resist. He winked at her. Nor could Emily stifle her response. She laughed.
No one but Emily had seen the wink, and everyone stared at Emily except Weightman, who suddenly took a great deal of interest in another tea cake. Emily had come to know him well enough to read the twitch that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Sarah Sugden felt discomfited by this sudden outburst of laughter, as though she sensed a personal affront. What a strange response, and what an odd duck Emily Brontë was. Sarah was suddenly determined to point this out.
“Miss Emily,” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm, “I did not think you could laugh.”
“Miss Sugden,” Emily retorted at once in her strongest broad Yorkshire accent, “I did not know you could think.”
The scene was as frozen as a painting. Then the Reverend Dury, who was most certainly paying attention now, began to cough, and then urged his daughter to the piano to play for the guests. Caroline was gratified to show off her talents, especially in a way that contrasted so clearly with both Sarah’s faux pas and the extraordinary rudeness of Emily Brontë. Good Lord, Caroline thought, just before launching into a difficult piece by Mozart, Emily had sounded as coarse and rude as a Haworth weaver. How embarrassed her family must be.
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