The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte tsaocb-1

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “I’m sorry to say that I paid them little attention until it was too late,” I said ruefully.

  “As did I,” Anne said.

  “But we must try to remember as much as possible about them,” I said.

  Just then, the stationmaster entered the office. He was a florid-faced man dressed in a railway uniform. “Pardon me,” he said. “Just checking to see how the ladies are.”

  Anne and I assured him that we both were well.

  “It’s a pity that such a thing happened to you on this railway,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ve missed the last train to Keighley, but there’s another tomorrow morning. In the meantime, if you want lodging, I suggest the White Horse Inn.”

  As I thanked him, my gaze alit on a framed picture on his desk. It was a miniature portrait of a woman and children who must be his family. Inspiration struck.

  “Sir,” I said, “may I please have a pencil and paper?” To Mr. White I said, “I shall sketch the faces of the men who attacked us.”

  Drawing is a favorite hobby of mine, although my talents are modest. As I sat at the desk and began to sketch, my hand was subject to a fearful trembling which had little to do with the events just past. My drawings-like my stories-are mirrors of my soul. When I draw for someone, or read aloud my writing, I hunger for praise and fear criticism. When my audience is a man, I feel most vulnerable. And when he is a man towards whom I have particular feelings, an intoxicating, shameful warmth spreads through my body, almost as if I were disrobing before him. I felt the warmth now as I drew the ginger-haired man. Anne offered suggestions, while Gilbert White stood beside me, watching.

  “Such impressive talent you have,” he said.

  “You are too generous, sir,” I said with an awkward laugh.

  Yet his praise delighted me. Unexpected memories arose to increase my agitation. I saw myself in the parsonage nine years ago, sketching William Weightman. When he stepped over to view the portrait, he touched his lips to my cheek in a brief, daring kiss. How I burned for days afterward! I recalled a schoolroom in Belgium, where I read aloud a French essay I’d written. My professor-a man I once loved to distraction-hurled scathing criticisms at me until I wept. Then he was all sympathetic kindness. Such passions he roused in me! Never could I let him know how much I craved the touch of his hand.

  Gilbert White’s hands now rested on the desk near me-those strong, clean hands which had wrested my life from the grip of peril. The thought of his carrying me to safety stirred me powerfully. I hazarded a glance up at him-and straight into the impenetrable depths of his eyes. Mightily embarrassed, I averted my gaze. I applied myself to drawing until the portraits were done.

  “Very true and lifelike they are,” said Anne.

  “I’m sure they will help locate the men,” Gilbert White said. “But for now, please let me take you and your sister to safe lodgings, Miss Bronte.”

  I gladly agreed, for I welcomed his protection and company. He installed us in a carriage and rode with us to the White Horse Inn. As we disembarked, a sulfurous fog engulfed us. The chill penetrated my damp garments, yet I was warm as from a fire burning inside me.

  “I apologize for disrupting your plans,” I said, in fear of the possibility that Mr. White was merely discharging what he saw as a duty.

  “I’m glad to help you.” Mr. White paid the driver and lifted my trunk.

  Heartened I was by his apparent sincerity; yet I thought to wonder how Gilbert White had happened to be on the same train as I. “May I ask what brought you to Leeds?” I asked.

  “I’m on my way to Bradford, to inform my mother of Isabel’s death,” Gilbert White said as he opened the inn’s door.

  I pitied him this sad task, and my distrust shamed me.

  “I, too, have missed my train and must stop the night here,” he added.

  Inside the inn, Anne and I engaged a room upstairs and Mr. White took one on the ground floor. He accompanied us to our room, to ensure that all was right. I heard him test the lock on the door-but avoided watching him; I pretended to study the white curtains and flowered wallpaper. His presence in the room where I would sleep caused me shameful thoughts.

  “You should be safe tonight,” Mr. White said. “I’m a light sleeper, and if anyone approaches you, I’ll hear.”

  His words, meant to reassure, divided my emotions. Glad though I was to have him near, might our inhabiting the same house violate propriety? I recalled my unease when he had asked me if Isabel had given me anything. What did I know about him other than what he himself had told me?

  Hesitantly I followed him into the corridor, while Anne remained in the room. “Sir,” I began, seeking a way to dispel uncertainty without offending him.

  I had only his word for what had happened between him and my attackers after he caught up with them. Could he be their accomplice? The ghastly notion stifled my voice as we stood facing each other. Mr. White waited for me to speak, his expression turning suddenly cautious. The narrow corridor confined us; a single lamp cast a fitful, smoky light. The inn’s staff and other guests had retired, and in the silence I heard my rapid breathing-and his. My back was pressed against the wall; my heart thumped with an uncomfortable fusion of fear and an awareness of the improper feelings that had arisen in me towards this man I couldn’t quite trust.

  At last he spoke. “May I escort you to Keighley tomorrow?” His voice was soft, his gaze compelling. “After what happened tonight, you shouldn’t travel alone.”

  That moment reminded me how fear can enhance attraction. I felt an almost irresistible urge to touch his bruised cheek. “But it would inconvenience you,” I stammered.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said with somber emphasis.

  I was quaking inside, every particle of my being alert to the implication that Gilbert White felt the same attraction as I. Alive with hope that rivaled fear, I nodded wordlessly.

  His rare smile flashed. “Then good night until tomorrow, Miss Bronte,” he said, and descended the stairs.

  Breathless and weak, I stood in the corridor, endeavoring to collect my thoughts. Likely, my recent mishaps had rendered me too leery of my fellow humans. If Gilbert White did have evil intentions regarding me, then he would not have saved me. We shared a mission as well as the potent alchemy that draws together a man and woman.

  Thus I justified my good opinion of Mr. White; but later, while I lay in bed, I wondered more about him. Was I truly safe in the protection of my rescuer and possible suitor? Or was he a villain biding his time while scheming against me? Just before I finally slept, I recalled the premonition evoked during my first encounter with Gilbert White. What could it mean?

  9

  As I prepare to describe the events that occurred after my return to Haworth, I realize that my version of them comprises but one portion of the story. Another belongs to my sister Emily. I then had no idea of her state of mind, for we were on such poor terms that we hardly spoke; and later, misfortune silenced Emily forever. I now face a difficult choice: Shall I allow her to remain as unknown to the world as she wished, or shall I reveal her nature in all its tragic, human beauty? The truth requires that I defy her wishes. It is my only hope of uncovering the complete facts of my story.

  The table before me is covered with journals that Emily left. What she endured in the weeks following Isabel White’s murder lie in the words I have culled from these journals. May God forgive me if I have defiled her memory for the sake of veracity. With great foreboding I open the volume for that year and copy her account herewith. The Journal of Emily Bronte Wednesday, 12 July 1848. A sullen, unsettling day after a night of rain. More storms threaten-I sense their approach rumbling in my bones. The earth, the sighing wind, and the stone walls of the parsonage breathe a fetid moisture. Oh, how this weather darkens my spirits, which are already in grievous state! Shall the very heavens weep for the troubled souls inside our house? This morning, when I went upstairs to clean Branwell’s room, I found him still abed, a ghastly, emaci
ated wraith. “Emily, please give me some money,” he moaned. As I pulled the soiled coverlet off him, he clutched my hands. I twisted out from his clammy, revolting grasp, crying, “I won’t. Let me go!” “Just a sixpence,” Branwell pleaded. “If I cannot buy laudanum, I shall die!” Once I would have tried to coax him into resisting self-destruction, but I have no more patience nor compassion for the wretch. What are his afflictions compared to mine? Branwell began sobbing. “Oh, heartless sister! Oh, cruel world! I’m dying, and nobody cares! Oh, my dear, lost Lydia!” “Be quiet!” I shouted, incensed, because I have suffered a far greater loss. Our commotion brought Papa hurrying to us. Branwell launched himself from the bed and fell on his knees in front of Papa. “Father, I need money. Please, you must help me!” Papa shook his head in sorrow. “I’ve already spent a fortune paying your debts. I’ll not indulge you anymore.” Desperate cunning shone in Branwell’s eyes. “If you won’t help me, I’ll kill myself!” He snatched a razor from the dresser; I grabbed his wrist. We struggled together in a mad dance, Branwell trying to slash his throat, I trying to prevent him. “Let me end my miserable life!” he screamed. Perhaps I should, thought I. Perhaps I should afterward turn the weapon on myself-then neither of us need suffer more. But Papa wrested the razor away from Branwell. We locked him inside the room. He pounded on the door, ranting in maniacal fury. I went to the kitchen and began kneading bread dough, trying to distract myself from Branwell’s uproar and my own worries. Where are Anne and Charlotte? Come back, come back! my heart silently calls to them. But still I burn with my fury at their betrayal. Perhaps I should not mind so much if only I could write! But I cannot. Many are the stories begun since I wrote Wuthering Heights -all abandoned incomplete. Whenever I now try to write, I hear the damning words of the critics. They trumpet that my novel “shows the brutalizing influence of unchecked passion.” They revile my characters as “most revolting to our feelings.” What misery is mine! I can only pretend to work, covering pages with ramblings like these, while inspiration hides behind a locked door inside me. Fortunate Charlotte, who enjoys travel and is writing a new book! Fortunate Anne, who has published a second novel! Oh, my heart shall break!

  Such bewilderment and consternation did Emily’s words cause me! How could she consider the mortal sin of taking her own life? Had I but known of her pain, I would have been more sensitive towards her. But she never gave me a clue. She always appeared supremely confident of her talent, as well she should have been: Her poems and stories were things of splendor that never failed to move me. In literary expertise she was the leader, my idol, even though I was her elder. And I never suspected that she cared what the critics said; she seemed so indifferent to public opinion, even during her youth. When Emily was seventeen, she came with me to Roe Head School where I taught. As eccentric in appearance as ever, she was the target of bullies, from whom I could not always protect her. But she never flinched at their tormenting. She held her head high, a soldier in an enemy prison camp. How I admired her! My weakness is that I always want people to like me-and my work-even when I care not for them. How I wished I could follow Emily’s example!

  But now I understand that her attitude sheltered a tender soul. Emily pretended to scorn the critics while she bled inside from their harsh comments about Wuthering Heights. She hid her wounds from me.

  When Anne and I at last returned to Haworth, we hurried into the kitchen, where Emily was kneading bread dough.

  “Emily!” Anne cried. “How I’ve missed you!”

  Emily glared. She showed no sign that she’d missed us or worried about us. Anne’s smile faded.

  “Has all been well here while we were gone?” I asked anxiously. Emily behaved as though she had not heard me.

  Anne offered our sister the book she had purchased in London. “We’ve brought you a present-it’s Tennyson’s poems.”

  When Emily made no move to take the gift, Anne sighed and laid it on the table. Anne and I could only exchange worried glances and silently agree that we had best leave her alone until her mood passed. We crept out of the kitchen.

  Two days after that unhappy homecoming, a spell of wet, chill weather descended upon Haworth. I donned my bonnet and cloak, armed myself with an umbrella, and headed down Church Road to post a letter to Ellen Nussey, my dearest friend. Ellen was something of a busybody, so avid was she to know everything I did or thought. I had lately neglected my correspondence with her, and I’d written a letter of vague explanation.

  Moreover, I could no longer tolerate confinement in the parsonage, where acrimony reigned. Emily continued sulking. Branwell had gone into the village and returned home uproariously drunk. Anne had received a review from the Spectator that read, “ The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, like its predecessor, suggests the idea of considerable abilities ill applied…”

  Although the wind now blew rain against me and tugged at my umbrella, I welcomed solitude. But solitude was not to be mine. As I neared the bottom of the lane, I was accosted by the Reverend Arthur Bell Nicholls.

  “Good day, Miss Bronte,” he said in his thick Irish brogue. “May I walk with you?”

  Mr. Nicholls had come from Dublin to be Papa’s curate. A man of twenty-nine years, he had heavy dark brown hair and eyebrows, heavy features, heavy legs, and a stolid, serious nature. I found him annoying, for he often sought me out although I could not imagine why. I reluctantly let him share my umbrella and accepted his company.

  We walked down Main Street, through the village. The rows of stone cottages were grimy with peat smoke and dripping with rain. Mr. Nicholls and I skirted gutters overflowing with malodorous drainage from cesspits. Haworth is a poor, unhealthful place riddled with poverty born of slumps in the textile industry. Damp, tiny cellar dwellings house large families, fevers rage, and funerals comprise a large part of Papa’s duties. That day the village seemed even smaller and poorer than usual, after my recent adventures in London.

  I refrained from speech in the hope that my companion would grow bored and leave me, for I wanted to think about Gilbert White. Mr. White and I had talked together on the train all the way from Keighley to Haworth. We at first discussed Isabel, but soon our conversation turned personal. I told Mr. White how I had happened upon some poems written by Emily and thought to publish a book of poetry by my sisters and myself. I admitted that only two copies had sold, but the venture had spurred me to attempt novels. Mr. White told me about growing up in the town of Bradford, his father’s fatal accident in a factory, and how charity had paid for his education at boarding school, then divinity college at Oxford. We had much in common-our Northern origins, our lives as charity children, our faith. He became the most intimate male acquaintance I’d ever had.

  Before we parted at Keighley Station, he jotted on a paper the address of his vicarage, presented it to me, and said, “Shall we write to each other?”

  “Do you mean-if I remember anything else about the men on the train-or if you learn anything from your mother?” I asked, astounded because no man I admired had ever before asked me to correspond with him. “Why, yes, of course.”

  “Whatever you choose to write, I’ll be delighted to read,” Mr. White said earnestly.

  I thought it prudent to wait until he wrote before writing him a letter, and while I waited, I relived every moment spent with him. I dressed my hair with undue care, as if he could see me; we carried on imaginary conversations in my mind. For a woman to nurture affection without proof of requital is sheer folly, as I well knew, but I could not help myself.

  Now Arthur Nicholls said, “Yesterday, at the stationer’s shop, I met a stranger.” Close beside me under the umbrella, he smelled of cooked cabbage. How I wished I had Gilbert White as my companion instead! “He asked about you, Miss Bronte.”

  “Oh?” I said, bored by anything the curate had to say.

  “He wanted to know who your family and friends are, what you do, and what kind of character is yours,” said Mr. Nicholls.

  Uneasiness stirred in me;
the rain and gusting wind seemed colder than a moment ago. “What was this man’s name?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  My uneasiness quickened into alarm. “Well, what did he look like?”

  “I didn’t really notice.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing, of course. I don’t gossip to strangers.” Mr. Nicholls looked affronted.

  There are people who have no notion of sketching a character or perceiving salient points of persons or things, and Mr. Nicholls belongs to this class. Would that he were as good at observation as he was discreet! Could the stranger be one of the men who had assaulted Anne and me on the train? I looked down Main Street towards the village green and the toll gate. Suddenly Haworth didn’t seem so isolated as before.

  “Miss Bronte, I hope you’ve not been doing anything to attract improper attention from strange men,” Mr. Nicholls said in a tone of sententious concern. “As the daughter of a clergyman, you should be careful about your behavior, lest it reflect badly upon your father or the Church.”

  How dare he assume I was at fault and tell me how to act? “You do seize upon any chance to sermonize.”

  “Yes; it is my duty,” Mr. Nicholls said seriously, interpreting my tart rejoinder as praise.

  It was a pity that Mr. Nicholls couldn’t be like Gilbert White, who’d cared more for my safety than about public opinion. Still, I knew Mr. Nicholls to be a good man, held in high regard by Papa and the parishioners. Perhaps Anne and Emily and I shouldn’t have stolen his middle name as our nom de plume, although we’d enjoyed our secret joke.