Bronte's Mistress

by Finola Austin

  “Thank you,” I muttered, wishing she were close enough that I might catch her hand. “I am sorry that we are meeting only now and that you must think so ill of me. It seemed to me sometimes, from speaking with your brother, that you and I must be alike.”

  Her expression hardened. “We were both loved by my brother, Mrs. Robinson. There all resemblance ends.”

  Branwell had told me many stories about Charlotte. There was one that came to me now. She had been a small and sickly schoolgirl, decidedly plain, dressed in hand-me-downs and already wearing the eyeglasses that I had needed too but disdained for vanity’s sake. For hours she had stood on a chair as punishment, surrounded by students and teachers too scared to help her, defiant in the face of one of those injustices that stay with us always if they happen when we’re young. And she hadn’t flinched, she hadn’t cried, she hadn’t faltered. She was more the boy than her younger brother. She was always the hero, Wellington to his Bonaparte.

  I wanted to reveal my soul to Charlotte, ask about her schoolmaster and force her to see the parallels between us that she rejected, but I had come to help, not to argue. I swallowed my pride. “Can I go to him?” I asked. “I would like to see him one last time.”

  Her eyes flashed lightning. “Anne might have bid you come when he was living, but there is no need of that now. I cannot ask you to come inside—you whom my family speaks of as his murderer.”

  Murderer?

  “Anne, along with our other sister, Emily, is prostrate from this shock. My father is a broken man. I must be their strength. As always. There is little joy in life for me now, except that which I take in my sisters’ health and happiness.”

  “I never meant him harm, Charlotte,” I whispered.

  But had I meant Branwell any good? Had I thought of him at all? Even now, part of me was longing for Charlotte, not for him. I wanted her to accept me, embrace me—Emily too and even Anne. I longed for a place at their table, beside the three of them, creating new worlds, writing their own stories, yearning for more.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Robinson.” Charlotte turned and walked back to the house.

  The tears I was choking on now seemed less for Branwell than for his sisters, for the fact that they would always hate me. Charlotte would stand steadfast in the grief for her brother that I would be denied. She could wear the mantle of her pain with virgin dignity, while I was shrouded with shame.

  The rain soaked through my hair and beat down on me. The invisible moors were howling, telling me I should have stayed away. My teeth were chattering by the time William Allison found me and hauled me up, as easily as if I’d been one of his children.

  “There, ma’am, there,” he said, holding my shaking shoulders. “We have to get you dry and then home. You’ve been through too much to throw away your reward.”

  * * *

  LADIES IN GAY SKIRTS promenaded down the wide streets of Bath, picture-perfect against the limestone townhouses. Invalids, wrapped in blankets to protect against the cold, juddered over the cobbles in wheeled chairs pushed by nurses. Everyone was on their daily pilgrimage to take the waters at the spa.

  And I was a bride, playing at gaiety for all of a few hours, less nervous than I’d been the first time, although, in the soft light of this city, at least, as fair.

  A short, brisk walk before the ceremony.

  The customary vows.

  Sir Edward and I didn’t linger over the “Death” part. That was the only way this could end—we both knew that now—with one of us outliving the other.

  Then, as if by metamorphosis, I was “Lady Scott.” In a few words, I’d assumed my dead cousin’s name and set aside Edmund’s, with all the relief that had come with putting away my mourning.

  Lady Bateman had organized a gathering of men and women I did not know. They were kind and decorous and didn’t dwell on my or Sir Edward’s widowed states or the manner of our meeting. But there wasn’t, as there had ever been at the weddings I had been to before, that hushed veneration at the part of the ceremony that was yet to come.

  I was used to the wry smiles of men patting the groom on the back, the sorrow of the father as he bids his daughter good-bye, and the at times abject and visceral fear of the bride, who clings onto her mother as if her life depends on it, as if she were being set upon by pirates intent on stealing her away.

  Tonight no one seemed to feel any need to hurry. Perhaps none believed that we had really waited. Maybe they imagined that Sir Edward and I were too old and so beyond such foolishness. Or maybe that they were sparing me—a woman who might have been free from “all that” had she only been richer, but was now bearing the yoke once more, so she could wear fine dresses and throw lavish parties at Great Barr Hall.

  But at last the evening was over and I was in my room—or rather, Sir Edward’s room, now ours to share.

  My husband, dangerous, delicious bigamy to say the word, was still bidding Lady Bateman good night on the stairs.

  “Edward!” I cried as soon as he was safe within and the door had clicked closed behind him. I flew across the chamber and kissed him with every ounce of passion in me, although his lips were dry and, up close, his skin was lined and sallow.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, when I at last came up for air.

  “Why, kissing you!” I laughed and leaned in again.

  My fingers were working at the buttons down the front of my gown, which was ivory. How Edmund’s mother would have shuddered at the horror of it. The idea that I might undress Sir Edward Scott was too fresh, too new, for me to attempt it and, besides, Lady Bateman’s maid had laced me so tightly that I was gasping for freedom.

  “But Lydia—” This time Sir Edward pushed me off, but at least he was gentle. “There are still lights.”

  There were still… Oh.

  I scurried around the room, extinguishing each candle and turning the oil lamp low. Sir Edward couldn’t make out that I was smiling at his silliness in the dark.

  Branwell had seen me in every light and from every angle. He’d hitched up my skirts against the wall of the Monk’s House, admired my naked body under the dappled sunbeams fighting through the thatch of George Walker’s dirty old hovel, felt his way to me when all was black in the dovecote, which smelled of hay, cheap gin, and piss.

  When the lights were all but extinguished and the curtains were drawn, Sir Edward began to undress, not looking at me.

  He was shy.

  I turned away too.

  So many layers. I unbuttoned my dress and draped it over a chair, unhooked my crinoline, unlaced my corset.

  Once I was down to my shift, I risked another glance at him.

  This time, he was watching me.

  “Lie down,” he said.

  I went to peel off my underthings but he shook his head.

  Instead I came as I was to the bed. I sat, swung my legs before me, leaned back and gazed at the dark canopy above, its pattern indistinguishable in the gloom.

  A creak.

  A shadow looming over me.

  Sir Edward’s breath was warm against my neck, but still he didn’t touch me.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. I arched my back in an attempt to reach him.

  I needed proof that I was still alive, that this part of me hadn’t died along with Branwell.

  Sir Edward brought his hand to my breast, the linen still between us.

  I gasped.

  His other hand was pulling down my drawers and creeping up my thigh, but not for my sake. For his. He was feeling out his target.

  Seconds later, he pushed into me. Quick, yes, but it didn’t need to be good the first time, did it? With Branwell, that first time had been frenzied. It was only later that he’d learned— But no, I mustn’t think of him now. With my body I thee worship. I had to prove that I was all Sir Edward’s.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs about his back, kissed a soft spot of skin behind his ear.


  “Edward,” I whispered, rocking with him. “Edward.”

  He stopped abruptly.

  I drew back my hands as a reflex, although my ankles were still crossed around him, the hairs on my legs prickling in the cold.

  “What is wrong?” I breathed.

  “Lydia, you are acting like a whore,” he said.

  My heart, poor caged thing, did a death throe inside me.

  My legs fell with a thud to the mattress.

  “There, it is not your fault,” Edward said, softening. “But you are my wife now. Lie still.”

  He brought his hand to my face and stroked me.

  I willed myself not to cry.

  Seconds later he thrust into me again.

  The pillow was cold against my cheek, the sheet was folded too tightly around the mattress for me to grasp it.

  One strike, and another, and another.

  The black awning of the bed billowed above us three more times, then fell still.

  15th November 1848

  Allestree Hall

  Mama,

  I hope your wedding was all that you wished for.

  Mary’s was a fine celebration, although her subsequent letters from Keighley give me some anxiety about her happiness. The Claphams don’t live as well as she had hoped, and her husband is often absent. Auntie says she must give marriage time and that brides often feel so. Is that true? Either way, I will see Mary soon. In a little over a week, I go to stay with her. We will visit Miss Brontë together, if her sister Emily’s health has not worsened. They fear at Haworth she will soon join her brother.

  For now, though, it is hard for me to be the only one left. I had even taken to writing to Ned, but he insists on replying in pig Latin. My spirits were already depressed and then, a few days ago, Uncle Charles arrived, looking very grave. I thought it was on business, as he spoke with Uncle William first, but then the pair of them called me into the study and told me what was the matter.

  Will Milner means to sue me.

  I didn’t understand at first what it was he could sue me for. Uncle Charles called it a “breach of promise,” but when had I promised him anything? Then they read me a passage from one of those foolish letters that Lydia helped me write years ago.

  Oh, Mama, I’ve never been the sort to blush or to agonize over mistakes in etiquette as girls in novels are wont to do. But just then I wished that the ground would swallow me whole. I couldn’t defend myself or even blame Lydia. She’d known then nearly as little as me.

  When I stayed silent, my uncles made excuses for me, saying I had learned from you or “hadn’t been watched by the governess, that scoundrel’s sister.” And I started to say that it wasn’t true and that Miss Brontë was the best governess we could have wished for.

  They didn’t care what I thought, but sent me away and conferred again, this time with my aunt too. And when I came back, Aunt Mary took my hand and patted it. She told me that she and Uncle could pay lawyers, and even the Milners if necessary, to make those girlish letters melt away. I need only trust them to advise me and I might make myself a fine match—with the Jessops’ son, perhaps, who is due to visit next week.

  But I could not help thinking, Mama is Lady Scott and has money now, mightn’t she help me? And, were I to owe such a debt to Uncle and Aunt, what if I found myself unhappy like Mary, married to a man of their choosing?

  Mother, I am frightened. I delight in the open field and the fair chase, in having no one before me, just a straight shot to the horizon. Must I give that up? Must I be hemmed in? Aunt and Uncle are good and kind, but I’d much rather have my freedom from Will Milner delivered by your hands.

  Ever your loving daughter,

  Bessy

  22nd November 1848

  Southampton

  Bessy,

  I cannot abide these dramatics. A girl cannot spend her life riding horses or clinging to the freedom of her youth.

  You have two choices. If you wish to marry young Milner, do so. If you wish to marry someone else, take my sister and her husband up on their offer.

  You will learn, in time, that your mother cannot fix everything. What would you have me do? Change the world and your place in it?

  Your letter was forwarded to me in Southampton, where Sir Edward and I are seeing to the fitting out of his yacht. We will be in London briefly but will soon leave England.

  We want to get into warmer quarters for the winter, and the yacht is to meet us in Marseilles.

  I will send you an address where you can write to me. I will answer when I can, but you mustn’t expect to hear from me for some time.

  Very truly, your mother,

  Lady Scott

  EPILOGUE

  December 1848

  IT WAS QUIET ON the deck of our yacht, save for the lapping of the waves.

  Sir Edward was in the cabin below. He’d been worried I would catch a chill. “Yearning for solitude again, Lydia?” he’d asked when I told him I’d wanted to read. But then he laughed and told me it was warm enough to sit out if I wrapped a thick shawl around me and placed another across my lap.

  A seagull screeched overhead. I drew the packet toward me, although I’d read the contents twice since its arrival.

  I’d turned it over, perplexed, and examined it by candlelight four nights before as Sir Edward snored in our hotel room. Something had warned me to wait until he was asleep to open it. Who would send such a heavy package all the way to Marseilles? Hadn’t they cared for the expense?

  Inside were six books, tied together with string. A gift?

  One of the works was familiar: Jane Eyre by Currer Bell. I’d never finished it. I’d been busy with the wedding and so set the first volume aside, where all three still languished by my bed at Great Barr Hall.

  I picked up the others. “Bell” again, but this time “Ellis Bell” and “Acton Bell.” I flipped to the frontispiece of one novel and a sheet of paper slipped out.

  A letter. A familiar hand. My Dr. Crosby.

  I bent in and drew the candle so close to the page I was afraid it would catch alight. What I read there knocked the breath out of me.

  In one novel—Agnes Grey—you might discern certain similarities to the Ouseburns and our lives there—

  The authors’ names—Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell—recall a family who share their initials—

  I thought it best to write, to warn you—

  There was a buzzing in my ears as I drew the volume that contained Agnes Grey toward me. My shadow fell across the pages. The candle was burning low. I read in a furor, not caring if Sir Edward awoke to find me there on the floor. I had to know how Anne had made a mockery of us. Of me. Unfeeling. Ungrateful. Arrogant.

  A twisted distortion of Thorp Green Hall swam before me. There was the lady of the house, “handsome, dashing… who certainly required neither rouge nor padding to add to her charms.” She was indulgent and shallow, cared only for “frequenting parties and dressing at the very top of fashion.” Anne had even repeated descriptions of me she’d included in her letter to Charlotte, all those years before. One daughter was “far too big-boned and awkward ever to be called pretty.” The other, a flirt, “knew all her charms, and thought them even greater than they were.”

  No Georgie, calling out for water. No sweet Mary, who’d loved Miss Brontë and cried for a week when she left us. Anne had excised Branwell entirely and replaced Edmund with a caricature of a straightforward country man, well humored and gregarious, who cared only for his horses.

  Since then I’d read and reread her rendition incessantly, smarting at the injustice of it. And I’d read the other novels too. Wuthering Heights, strange and romantic as Emily herself, a work birthed on the Haworth moors, and Charlotte’s Jane Eyre, which I owned was better, if self-centered. For hadn’t Blanche Ingram suffered too? Or the first wife, the one Mr. Rochester had cast aside? Readers were so quick to lap up the sorrows of moping governesses when that was only one side of the story.

  You
are a poet, Branwell had told me once, although he didn’t have to; he could have had me anyway. But he was dead, and unlike his sisters, he had left nothing of himself behind in ink other than a few verses signed “Northangerland” in Mr. Bellerby’s newspaper and some worthless ramblings about me that Charlotte had burned.

  Sir Edward’s ring was on my finger, and my children were lost to me—to marriage, my sister, that world of men that Ned would soon enter and that I could never understand. As I sat there on the deck, trying to taste whether the water that splashed my face was from sky or sea, an urge rose inside me, as sudden as it was alien. It was the almost overwhelming desire to write a novel of my own. A story about me.

  If the Brontë sisters could do it, why shouldn’t I?

  I’d sequestered paper for my belated reply to Dr. Crosby. It flapped in the breeze, so I held it fast against my knee. The inkwell was wedged between my feet. My pen was poised, dripping with what, for the pain it had cost me, might as well have been my blood. Plain, poor, and virginal, Charlotte hadn’t even sampled half of it—the mewling infants, the cold marriage bed, the years of silence before death.

  How had it felt that day at the beginning, when Branwell had arrived? I closed my eyes to bring the scene in the schoolroom back to me. Branwell laughing up at me through the window. Ned and the girls, young and spirited. Miss Brontë meek, beside me though she might have been a thousand miles away. Oh, and I had been a dead and shriveled thing, with one foot firmly in the grave.

  I opened my eyes.

  Already a widow in all but name, I wrote. Fitting that I must, yet again, wear black.

  “What are you doing, Lydia?” asked Sir Edward. “I thought you were reading.”

  I jumped.

  He had emerged from below and was squinting at me, haloed as I was by the dazzling sun. His face already looked ruddy against his white boating jacket.

  “Nothing,” I said, drawing a clean page above the first. “At least, nothing important.”

  The wind lifted my unpinned hair from the roots, massaging my scalp. A few black strands flew into my field of vision, as dark as they had been on my first honeymoon. I could almost believe, out here where the sea mirrored only the sky, that I was young and that it was Edmund who stood beside me, that we were only just starting out.