The Crimes of Charlotte Bronte

by James Tully

  One can well imagine Ellen’s feelings upon receiving that letter. She wanted so much to see Charlotte and have a good gossip but that, seemingly, would not now be possible and she would probably have had a good idea why not. Also, she would have resented Nicholls’ high-handedness and what, to her, would no doubt have smacked of condescension. Therefore, she decided to make no reply, and not to accept any further invitations to the Parsonage.

  Now Charlotte knew Ellen very well, and of how she felt about Nicholls, and she would have anticipated her friend’s reactions. However, she had been unable to conjure up a more plausible excuse for why Sowden would have to be present whenever Ellen came. It was no surprise to her, therefore, when her friend did not answer. She wrote again, proposing a particular date, but Ellen replied that it would not be convenient for her.

  That, then, was how matters rested for over a month, and the situation seems to have caused Charlotte great concern. She decided to take the initiative.

  On 14 September, she wrote once more: ‘Mr Nicholls [no longer ‘Arthur’, you will have noticed] and I have a call or two to make in the neighbourhood of Keighley . . .’ She went on to say that they would be doing so on the 21st, and that: ‘. . . we wish so to arrange as to meet you there and bring you back with us in the cab.’ It was suggested that they should pick her up at the railway station.

  The extent of Charlotte’s longing to see Ellen again is obvious: ‘We shall be very, very glad to see you, dear Nell, and I want the day to come.’ She really was in an impossible predicament. On the one hand she was trying to placate the old friend whom she yearned to see, while on the other attempting to conform with the terms set by her husband, which she knew were unacceptable to Ellen. All that she could do was to try to present those conditions in the best light possible and trust that her friend would read between the lines.

  In the event, that last letter did the trick and Ellen went to Haworth – but she was never to see Charlotte after that.

  It would be more than interesting to know what took place during that visit of Ellen Nussey to the Parsonage. We know that relationships were strained, to say the least, and there must have been quite an atmosphere. Nicholls had not wanted Ellen there in the first place, and I doubt whether he would have bothered to disguise his feelings. For her part, we know that Ellen distrusted Nicholls and, were such a thing possible, she probably detested him even more. If some sixth sense warned her of the danger which he posed to Charlotte, her intuition would have been strengthened by the marked difference which she noticed in her friend. However, she was unable to discover what was going on because rarely were they left alone, and when they were Charlotte seemed loath to discuss her problems.

  Of course, we can only surmise about Charlotte’s thoughts, but I think that she now became convinced that Nicholls was merely biding his time for a suitable opportunity to arise in order to try again. She must also have had her own ideas about her recent ‘illnesses’, but she did not know what to do to protect herself. After all, she had no real evidence to support her fears, and Nicholls was putting on a good show of affection to the outside world.

  She knew that Ellen would have believed her, but she realized that little would be achieved by confiding in her. Her friend would have wanted her to leave Nicholls, but if she did that a reason would have to be given publicly, and that she could not do. Charlotte had declared consistently that she was happy in her marriage, and she and Nicholls presented a public image of wedded bliss. It would have been impossible, therefore, for her to have left him suddenly without causing a great deal of just the sort of gossip and speculation which she had always dreaded. Not only that, she knew her friend very well indeed and was only too aware that Ellen would have had difficulty in keeping any confidences to herself.

  One would think, though, that either or both of those consequences would have been a very small price to have paid had it meant saving her life, but things were not as simple as that. Charlotte had always been very jealous of her public image, and she was a proud woman. Then there were the practicalities of life to be considered. Had she left Nicholls she would have been homeless, and any whiff of scandal would have ensured that not many doors remained open to her. Even those who might have been prepared to take her in initially would not have wanted her as a permanent guest. Then there was her father; he would have raised the roof had she left, with unforeseeable consequences.

  Had she not been responsible for Anne’s death, Charlotte could, of course, have gone straight to the authorities, but she was, and that was the end of the matter. A counter-accusation by Nicholls, who would then have had nothing to lose, would have resulted in the exhumation of Anne’s body and the discovery of the poison which, beyond a reasonable doubt, could have been administered only by her sister.

  Even had she been completely innocent of any wrongdoing, and with her accusations supported by the evidence of Anne’s diary, Charlotte would probably have found it very difficult to interest anyone in what she had to say.

  Her thoughts seem to have gone around and around, with her tiredness and depression preventing logical conclusions, until all she felt capable of was to hope against hope that she was mistaken in her suspicions about her husband. From her actions, it is obvious that she wanted to do nothing which might alienate him, and thus provoke the very outcome that she feared.

  We, and men in particular, may find it very difficult to understand her confusion and inability to act. However, many women behave similarly in such situations. There are untold numbers of battered wives who stay with their husbands, even when they are in mortal peril. Charlotte was just such a one. She carried on from day to day, fearful but not knowing what to do about it, whilst all the time Nicholls increased his dominance over her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘For my soul is full of trouble: and my life draweth nigh unto the grave.’

  Psalms 88:3

  From now on, little changes began to take place in the Parsonage, but the first only came to my notice when, one day, Madam took me to one side and, almost in a whisper, asked me to take some letters to the post for her and not to tell anyone that I had done so. Of course, I said that I would, especially as it got me out of the Parsonage during the day, but I wondered what was going on because up till then she had always made such a big thing of marching off with all her letters in her hand for folk to see.

  Then I noticed that Mr Nicholls was always by her as she opened her letters, and he would put out his hand to read them himself when she had done so. One day, in my hearing, she said that there was naught in them to interest him, but he said sternly that he would be the best judge of that and took them off with him.

  I wondered what was going on all of a sudden, because up till then he had been content to let her read just snippets out to him, and he had even seemed bored by them. Now he not only read every word of the letters coming in but, whilst I was cleaning in the passage, I saw him standing over her as she was writing one of her own and he was telling her, almost word for word, what she was to put. It was evident that she did not like that at all, but she seemed to be putting up with it and I was struck by the change in her. Only then did it come to me, though, that the letters that she had given me to take on the quiet must have been some that she did not wish him to see.

  That got me thinking hard, for I did not know what to do, but in the end I made up my mind that I should tell Mr Nicholls what she was having me do – because all my feelings were for him and I owed her naught.

  He was so pleased when I told him, and said that I had been right to do so as he thought it very underhand of a wife to send secret letters. Then he told me that if it happened again I should give them to him first and he would see to it that they went off after he had read them. Of course, I said I would, but I begged him to be careful in the opening and resealing of them for I did not want anyone telling Madam if they found they had been opened, for I would get the blame.

  So that is what happened from then on, beca
use she began to ask me to take her letters more and more. It seemed to work all right, but only later did I find out that sometimes she gave letters to one of the other servants to take for her; so Mr Nicholls did not see them all.

  It was about that time that something else happened that seemed to upset her greatly. When I went down one morning I found Miss Anne’s old dog, Flossy, dead in the kitchen. I must say that it quite upset me as well, especially as, by the look of it, it had died in great pain. That did not prepare me for how Madam carried on though. When I told her she burst right out crying in a manner that I had never seen on her before, not even when Master Branwell and Miss Emily died and she was making it up. I just could not understand it, for she had never made much of the dog, but there it was – she had tears streaming down her face and rushed straight back upstairs and did not come down again all that day.

  Another change that happened was that they hardly went out together any more, except for the walks up on the moor, and I even heard her making complaint about that, but in such a fearful manner that was so unlike her that I had to look twice to make sure that it was her who was speaking. Mr Nicholls would have none of it though and, in a harsh manner such as I had never seen him use to her before, he made it quite clear that it was his wish that she should go with him, and that he would not take ‘No’ for an answer.

  I could not understand any of that, especially as because when they first came back from Ireland she had been out and about everywhere in the village – in fact folk had got fed up with her calling and playing the Lady with them. Before she was wed, as well, she did not seem to be at home for 5 minutes at a time, and was always gadding off somewhere. Now, though, all that was changed and, as I have said, she left the Parsonage only with Mr Nicholls, and even then only to go up to the moor, and I did not know why. What I do know is that being cooped up in the Parsonage did not agree with her because she seemed to be complaining all the time – although not so much with me.

  They had some visitors though, because just before Christmas, as I remember it, Madam got very excited for a change and started putting on all her old airs again because Sir James Somebody or Other and his wife were coming for a day. Well, you never saw such a to-do. She had us slaving away from morn till night, and you would have thought that the Queen herself was coming – and for a month at that!

  Then, all of a sudden it seemed, yet another Christmas was upon us. I had not looked forward to it all that much but, as is often the way, I enjoyed it perhaps more than most. I was not able to meet Mr Nicholls though, which was a bitter blow to me, but he seemed so busy all the while, and she seemed to watch his comings and goings as never before. In a way, it was perhaps just as well though, because it always seemed that his mind was far away and not on what he was – or should have been – about!

  After Christmas it was awful – especially as I had had such a good time at home during my time off, with lots of folk coming and going all the while. The Parsonage seemed so dark and cold and quiet, and everything was in such a mess that my heart sank. Nevertheless we got down to it, and soon started to get things to rights and warm ourselves up in the doing.

  It took us 3 or 4 days to have the place back to near normal though, and matters were not helped by Madam starting to stand over us again and poking her nose into what we were doing, and telling us how to do it. It got to such a pitch that I nearly told her that if she had lifted a finger over Christmas there would not have been so much for us to do and, as she was so good at everything, the place would be as she wanted it – but I kept quiet, smiled at her sweetly, and thought my own thoughts!

  Next morning, though, Mr Nicholls told me that she was not well, and would not be getting up. I asked him what was up with her, but he said that he did not know – she just felt out of sorts. He did not seem at all put out, and said that he was not going to send for a doctor.

  Later on I went up to see her, and I must say that she did not look all that good. She wanted naught to eat or drink, and did not seem to want to talk to me, so I made up the bed whilst she sat out and then left her to get on with it!

  After a day or two she seemed all right again, but even so I was very surprised when she came to me and said that her and Mr Nicholls were going away for a few days, and told me how to look after her father and Miss Aykroyd, as if I did not already know all about that and far more than she did – talk about teaching her grandmother to suck eggs!

  She said they were going to stay with the Sir James and his wife who had come to the Parsonage just before Christmas, and I wondered why Mr Nicholls had given his agreement to that, because he would not go anywhere else.

  Anyway, off they went, and I must say that I was pleased to see the back of them for a time and to have things a little easier for a change. They were only gone for a little while though, so it seemed that no sooner had they left than they were back again. Madam looked a little better than when she went, but within a day or two she seemed quite poorly. She said she had a cold. Over the next few days she just dragged herself about and was very quiet, and she began to go to bed in the afternoons. Then she started to be sick, and I wondered what was going on – for it seemed that she had something more than a cold.

  The first thing that came to my mind, especially after what she had said to Mr Nicholls about having children, was that she was carrying, but when I thought about it I could not really believe that. For a start, she was not that far off 40 and, if I was to believe Mr Nicholls, they had done nothing of that sort for quite a while anyway. Then, of course, the other thought that came yet again – and hot on the heels of the first – was that Mr Nicholls might be up to his old tricks.

  I may have been very much in love with Mr Nicholls, but I was not a fool, and all along – whenever he spoke of being patient – I had thought that, somehow, he might be going to do away with her, but I had shut my mind to such a thing because I did not wish to be a part of it even in thought. If that was in his mind though, the way that she had kept on and on about the bother with the horse in Ireland made me wonder if the same thought had come to her. Now she was always, it seemed, being ill and I thought it little wonder that she was so quiet.

  Of course, it would have been much easier for him to poison her now that he lived in the Parsonage, and I began to think back on how he seemed to have been so mindful of her well-being of late. Since she had become ill he had taken to making her drinks himself and carrying them up to the bedroom, with one for himself, after she had had her afternoon rest. Not only that, I noticed that he always washed the cups himself. I did not like to see a man doing such things – especially him – and so, 2 or 3 times, I had offered to make the drinks and told him to leave the dirty cups, but he had just said that it was all right, and that he did not wish to give me extra work, and carried on.

  I do not know what she made of it all really, but one day when we were alone in the bedroom she said something – I cannot now bring her real words to mind – that made me believe that she thought she was with child. She did not come right out and say so – it was just something that I picked up on – so I did not think it my place to take her up on it, but I thought: ‘If that’s what you think, Madam, you had best think on.’

  Some days later Mr Nicholls and me managed one of our few meetings, and I took the chance to ask him about it. It did not come out very easily, after what he had told me, but I had made up my mind to ask him and so I nerved myself and did so. What, I asked him, did he think ailed his wife, and could it be that she was carrying a baby? That did it! He took his arm from me, looked at me as if I was mad, and then asked how the ‘D—’ could I think such a thing, and went on to say what I thought was a very bad thing for a man of the Church, that if she was it would have been an Immaculate Conception! Well, I said that there was something up with her, and I thought it high time that he had a doctor in because folk were starting to talk.

  When I think back, I see that he never did answer any of my questions straight out, and I now know why. I
did not know for certain at the time, but certainly I had a good idea of what he was about – I just shut my mind to it.

  Then, as if there was not enough going on, Miss Aykroyd took very ill. Mind you, she had not been her old self for a very long time – and that was to be expected, because she must have been well over 80, and had not really done anything around the house for years. Even so, she had been very kind to me, especially in my early days at the Parsonage, and I had not minded looking after her as well as Mr Brontë. Now, though, it was not just old age but something far worse, and it made me sad to see her in such a way. She could keep nothing down at all, and sometimes there was blood in what came away from her, but when I told Madam and Mr Nicholls how bad she was neither of them seemed very bothered, and I could do naught but clean her and her bedding and see that she was warm and comfortable.

  Perhaps it was to have been expected with all that I had been doing, but then, of all things, I was taken ill, and in very much the same way as Miss Aykroyd – although not so bad. Even so it frightened me, for it was rare for me to be so unwell as to have to take to my bed, and I did so only when I felt I could go on no longer.

  Before I did, though, I told Mr Nicholls and Madam what I was about, and the next thing I knew Mother and my sister Tabitha – who is about 7 years younger than me – had turned up to look after things. Seemingly, Mr Nicholls had told Mr Brontë about me and he had told him to ask if Father could arrange for some help to come in and look after us all.

  Well, it was almost worth being ill to have no work to do and to be fussed over by Mother, but I was glad when I was up and about again for it was no pleasure being in the same room as Miss Aykroyd all the time.

  I do not know if what I had said to Mr Nicholls had anything to do with it but, some time in the February, he brought in a doctor for Madam – from Bradford of all places. How I wished, though, that somebody would bring in a doctor, from anywhere, for poor Miss Aykroyd – even from the village – because she just got worse and worse, and to tell the truth we were all tired of cleaning up after her. I feel very ashamed of that now, but it was not a nice job and I could see no end to it. Came the day, though, when she just passed away in her sleep, which was a shock to me when I found her like that, although I knew that for her it was a blessed release.