The Crimes of Charlotte Bronte

by James Tully

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.’

  The Song of Solomon 1:2

  Now I must set down some happenings which are not to my credit, and I would like to leave them out, but they form such a part of what was to come that I cannot do so.

  We all noticed the change in Mr Nicholls once Miss Charlotte and Miss Anne had left. He was much more like he had been when he first arrived – light-hearted and full of cheer, and talking to us all when he made his daily visit to the Parsonage to see how Mr Brontë was. Oddly enough, as I thought at that time, he seemed in even higher spirits after the news of Miss Anne’s death came, although he put on a different face when he was out.

  Of course, he had many chances of speaking to me and knew a lot about me because he was living at our house. Sometimes he would start talking to me about almost anything, and would really get me laughing with his tales of when he was a lad in Ireland. At times he would place his arm around me, seemingly without thinking, and once he even tickled me as he had done in his early days.

  I suppose he was about 31 then, and I was 10 years younger. He had always attracted me greatly, and he seemed to have been somewhat drawn to me as well, but I was just a servant and he had given his serious attentions to Miss Emily and Miss Charlotte. However, with Miss Charlotte away, and looking to be so for quite a while, he seemed to take more notice of me and I was quite pleased and flattered.

  On my side at least, it was all very innocent, but then came the day, whilst Miss Charlotte was still away, when, for I think the first time ever, we found ourselves completely alone in our house.

  It had been a warm and sunny day, and that evening I had some time off from the Parsonage. Father had a Lodge meeting and Mother had told me that her and my sisters would be walking over to my Aunt’s cottage for what sounded to me as if it would be a pleasant time. I had said that I would join them if I could. Miss Aykroyd had agreed that I could have some time off and so, as soon as I had finished work I hurried home as quickly as I could, and just as I was.

  I had had a busy day, what with all the sympathetic callers about Miss Anne, and I was hot and sweaty and I could barely wait to get home to get washed and changed into some of my best clothes. It was usual for me to wash from the ewer and basin in my sisters’ bedroom whenever I was home but, knowing all my family to be out, and Mr Nicholls with Mr Brontë at the Parsonage, I decided to do so in the kitchen rather than have to go through all the bother of emptying the basin and refilling the ewer again afterwards.

  As it happened, there was already a bowl of clean water in the sink and so I took off my dress, slipped my shift to the waist, and then bent over and put my hands in the water and splashed my face. It was bliss, but then, in an instance, I was almost turned to stone because I felt two hands cupping my breasts and a body was pressing hard against me from behind. Half-blinded by the water, I swung around in a panic, my hands lashing out, but then I felt my wrists grabbed tightly and heard Mr Nicholls saying softly that it was only him, and that everything was all right.

  My senses were still all at odds though, and I pulled and pushed trying to get away, whilst all the time he was holding me tighter and forcing me hard against the sink. Then I felt him pressing a cloth to my face and I thought he was trying to smother me until I found that he was now holding me with but one hand and was trying to dry my face and hair with the other, whilst all the time kissing the back of my neck. I found myself becoming calmer, but I could feel his hardness and then, without a thought on my part, I turned and was returning his kisses with a feeling as wild as his.

  As I write this now, I feel all the madness of those moments coming back to me, and my face is becoming warm even at this space of time. I do not wish to set down in full all that happened next – let it be enough to say that we ended up on the stones of the kitchen floor and when, but a few moments later it seemed, we got to our feet again we both knew that things would never be the same between us after that.

  I remember that my body seemed to be burning all over, inside and out, and, grabbing up my clothes, I fled up to the bedroom and lay on the bed with so many thoughts rushing through my mind. I must be honest, I was not a virgin at the time for I had let myself go with two lads in the past. Never, though, had I known such fever as at this time and, in between hoping that I would not find myself with child, my mind was awhirl wondering what the future would hold.

  All the time I was lying there I was wondering if Mr Nicholls would come upstairs, but he did not. I heard the splashing of water from the kitchen, and then the back door went and, creeping to the window, I saw him striding up to the moor as if he had not a care in the world.

  When I had collected myself, I went down to the kitchen and, after emptying and refilling the bowl, I washed myself all over – but this time with the doors bolted and the curtains drawn, and all the time with my ears cocked for the smallest sound. Then I dressed and did my hair, and walked across the village to my Aunt’s cottage, feeling all the while that folk had but to look at me to tell what I had been up to.

  I do not know how I got through that evening, and Mother must have had her thoughts because she said I was flushed and asked if I had a fever. Ever since, I have wondered whether she sensed what I had been about, and whether she ever spoke of it to Father.

  The next time I saw Mr Nicholls I felt my face burning like fire, but he made no mention of what had passed between us. Only later in the day, as he came out of Mr Brontë’s room, did he take me to one side and ask me if I was all right, and we arranged to meet that very night.

  After work that night I went home, washed and did my hair most carefully, with one of my best ribbons holding it back. I even dabbed on a little perfumed water that one of my sisters had given me for my birthday. I looked at myself in the little glass and, though I say it myself, and even though my face was so flushed that it seemed as if I had painted it, I thought I had never looked prettier. Of course, one of my sisters had been watching through the door and, having seen what I was about, she wasted no time in running down to Mother and telling her that I was off to meet a lad. Thank goodness Father was out when I came down, because he would have wanted to know more, but all Mother said was to enjoy myself but be careful – and I knew what she meant.

  Just as he and Miss Emily had done, Mr Nicholls and me made our own ways up to the moor and there, by a little waterfall, he took me in his arms very gently and said all the things that I had been hoping he would say. It ended with us making love again.

  We had several more meetings like that before Miss Charlotte came back – and then they stopped. This saddened me, but it did not surprise me, as he had warned me that they would have to. When I pressed him to say why, he said there was a lot he could not tell me, but that I should trust him and all would be well.

  I had to be content with that, but I was very puzzled, until something happened that explained a lot of things, and later led me to think of what might be the truth of the matter.

  It all began like this. Me and Mr Nicholls had been trying to make the most of it before Miss Charlotte came back, and 2 nights before she was due we went to the moors a bit earlier. Little did I know, though, that that evening would stay in my mind for ever, because we were to make love in a way such as I have never known.

  At first Mr Nicholls was so gentle, for we were both sad that our times together were to end. Slowly, though, our other feelings got the better of us and we ended up with not a stitch on and touching and kissing each other all over until I was beside myself with wanting him. Afterwards we lay together quite out of breath, and with me feeling all drained, but I had never been so at ease.

  That night I slept more sweetly than for a long while, and was up even earlier than was my custom, and started work feeling very different from how I normally did. I was content with the world, and so full of good spirits that I took it upon myself to undertake a chore that I had been dreading ever since I got over the news of Miss Anne�
��s death. I went to her room, stripped off all the bedding – even though I had put clean on when she left – and took it downstairs for washing. Then I went back and set about tidying up and putting her things in some semblance of order. Everything was higgledy-piggledy after all the excitement of her getting off for her holiday, and I did not really know where to start, but start I did and, being inquisitive, I quite enjoyed rootling around amongst her things.

  I looked at some of her old writings, and then poked around in the chest where I knew she had some keepsakes and other things dear to her heart. On top were some things of only passing interest to me but, just underneath them, I found her writing-desk. I got it out carefully, because it was a lovely box, and then set about having a closer look. I had never been able to do so before because Miss Anne always locked it and put it away carefully when she was not using it, and so I knew little about it and I was filled with curiosity.

  To my great surprise, I saw that its tiny key was still in the lock. Now that was indeed unusual because, as I have said, Miss Anne was always so careful about locking it, especially of late, that I had often wondered what was inside to be guarded so well. All that I could think of was that she had hidden it away in a hurry in the last-minute rush to be off, and had quite forgotten to take the key.

  The desk was locked, and so I turned the key but still it would not open, and it was only by jiggling it around that I found that it seemed to open in the opposite way from what I thought it would. I unfolded the desk, but there was nothing that caught my eye on top, nor in the secret little drawers underneath and between the inkpots. Then I lifted the flap, below which I had often seen Miss Anne slip things, and found several papers, all about things private to her, and a small bundle of letters tied up in ribbon. I read one, and found that it was a love letter from Mr Weightman, who had been the curate when I first started work at the Parsonage, but who had died young only 2 years after. Everybody had always known that Miss Anne thought a lot of him, and she was never really the same after he died. All the letters were from him, but I read only the one and tied them back up again.

  Then, underneath everything else, I found one of the thicker exercise books that used to be given out to the older children at the Sunday School. I hardly expected it to hold anything worth reading, but I opened it and found that page after page was covered in Miss Anne’s neat handwriting, but writ so small that I had to squint my eyes to read it.

  I read but two pages, but that was enough to tell me that it seemed to be something of a diary of happenings that made my heart beat so fast it was like to burst. There was no time to read it all and so I placed it under my skirt and then went and hid it with my things in my bedroom.

  It took days for me to read it all, for I could do so only when nobody was about. Once Miss Aykroyd asked me what I was doing and I had to tell her that I was going through some of my old exercise books as I was thinking of throwing them out. What I read, though, would not have been found in any of them. It was far worse than some of the magazines about murders that Father sometimes left lying about the house.

  I found out that Mr Nicholls had poisoned Master Branwell, and that Miss Emily had thought that she was with child by him when she died, and that Miss Anne had told Miss Charlotte everything, but she had done nothing except swear Miss Anne to secrecy. Then came pages of her wonderings about whether Mr Nicholls had poisoned Miss Emily as well and whether, in spite of her promise to Miss Charlotte, she should tell someone else, lest something happen to her.

  It seemed to me, though, that she might have been content with doing nothing more had she gained a measure of relief from writing everything down but evidently she did not. Her later words were about not being able to understand why Miss Charlotte kept putting off the holiday with her and why, at the last, both her and Miss Nussey were going with her when Miss Nussey had, at the start, made it quite clear that it was not possible for her to go. The writings ended with her hopes that Scarborough would do her good – little did she know, poor girl.

  One thing above all stood out in my mind when I had finished reading; I could not, for the life of me, understand why Miss Charlotte had done nothing when Miss Anne went to her, but had made her pledge herself to keep quiet. Surely, I thought, Miss Charlotte would have wanted to have Mr Nicholls brought to book. It nagged away at my mind, and then suddenly it came to me that she was holding it over him, and all became clear to me, though it was to be years before I learned the full story from Mr Nicholls’ own lips.

  I sat there, the book in my lap, not knowing what to think or do. My first thought was to show it to Father and let him decide, but then it came to me that he did not like Mr Nicholls one jot, and that it was like to happen that he would have him sent to the gallows. I could not bear to think of such a possibility in the light of what was happening between us, and so I resolved to do naught. I was always taught ‘Least said, soonest mended’, and that seemed to be the right thing then. Next day I put the book back where I had found it, and tried to put what it held from my mind for the time being, although it was clear to me that what I now knew might one day stand me in good stead.

  I never said a word about it to anyone then, but what I had learned was to change the whole way in which I regarded Mr Nicholls and Miss Charlotte. With Mr Nicholls I no longer found myself in awe of him, and I went into our lovemaking far more sure of myself and of him. As for Miss Charlotte, no longer did I put myself out to please her, nor did I suffer her scoldings as before – even though they were far fewer than they had been when I was younger. Instead, I began to stand up to her when I knew I was in the right and, to my surprise, she showed me more regard for it and talked to me more than she had ever done.

  However, I must not get ahead of myself, because I have not yet told of what went on when Miss Charlotte finally came home.

  Much later, Mr Nicholls told me that it was clear to him that Miss Charlotte had found it a long time to be away from him, and she was even more pressing with him than before. Of course, I knew naught of that at the time, but he had warned me that we could not meet when she was around.

  He also told me that Mr Brontë wanted his company more and more, and that he found it harder to get away. Looking back, I just cannot understand how foolish and besotted I must have been to believe him. It was evident to most folk that Mr Brontë had little time for him, and that for two pins he would be rid of him except that he needed his help. But believe him I did.

  It was also much later that he told me of the tale that Miss Charlotte had spun him when she came back. He said that he had looked at her askance when she said that Miss Anne had died of a natural cause, and had felt confirmed in what he was thinking when, having asked for the poison back, she told him that she had thrown it over the cliff at Scarborough. Nevertheless he could not be sure if she had used the poison; so he made out that he believed her, and put on a show of looking pleased that all had gone so smoothly. For her part, it seems that she had been most worried about how the news of Miss Anne’s death had been taken in Haworth and thereabouts, but he was able to calm her fears and tell her that there had been no talk that he knew of, and that her father had accepted everything – but little did either of them know what was said in the village behind their backs!

  Miss Charlotte put on a good act to all and sundry about being so sad at Miss Anne’s death, and how much she missed her, and so on and so on, but she did not pull the wool over my eyes. On top of what I had always thought and known about her, I now saw her quite clearly for the nasty little woman she was. Miss Anne’s book had shown me that she knew what had happened to Master Branwell and Miss Emily and, to tell the truth – and I am not being wise after the happening – I had already begun to have secret thoughts about Miss Anne’s death.

  Knowing her as I did, I did not think it at all odd that one of the first things that Miss Charlotte set about was to go through Miss Anne’s things. I had often seen her poking around her sisters’ private belongings when they were alive,
if she thought that no one was about, and so it did not surprise me when she spent hours sorting through Miss Anne’s clothes and other bits and pieces. Nor was I mazed when one day I crept in whilst she was out and found that Miss Anne’s book was gone. All I thought was: ‘Well if she didn’t know it all before, she now knows what I know.’

  After that I thought and thought about it all, because the only person in danger from Miss Anne’s book was Mr Nicholls, and we all knew how very cold Miss Charlotte had always been to him. When I first read Miss Anne’s book I had wondered why she had not told on him, but now that it had disappeared, and again nothing had happened, the reason suddenly became clear to me: Miss Charlotte was in love with Mr Nicholls. I knew for certain that she would use the book to bind Mr Nicholls to her even more closely and for as long as she wanted. Now, more than ever, I saw why he was not meeting me so often, and I understood his late nights at the Parsonage and so many other things.

  From time to time I had seen them standing close together and deep in talk in different places downstairs in the Parsonage. On the times that they had noticed me, which they did not every time, they had stepped apart and said something loudly for my ears and then gone their ways. When they did not see me they kept talking for ages. I had thought that they were worried about Miss Anne or Mr Brontë, or some such thing.

  Then, shortly after she got back, there was the time when she was going on about something or other and she said ‘Arthur’ instead of ‘Mr Nicholls’. It was the very first time I had ever heard her call him that, and she knew what she had done as soon as the word was out of her mouth. She went redder than I had ever seen her go, even in temper, and said, very quickly: ‘Oh, I mean Mr Nicholls of course.’ I had wondered about that at the time, but now, as I have said, I suddenly understood a lot of things and I did not like what I knew. I had thought that Mr Nicholls really felt something for me, in spite of the differences in our stations, and I had begun to have secret dreams. Now, though, I felt that I had just been silly, and that he had simply been dallying with me because, whatever his true feelings for me, he had to dance to her tune. Far too late, I wished that I had kept Miss Anne’s book instead of putting it back.