Aunt Branwell and the Brontë Legacy

by Aunt Branwell

  Aware that a protest had been made to the Archbishop of York, Edward Venables-Vernon, Patrick respectfully declined his nomination, but fate took a hand. Reverend Heap repeated his mistake, and appointed Samuel Redhead to the Haworth curacy without consulting the villagers. Pandemonium reigned at Reverend Redhead’s first two Sunday services, and the extreme and violent lengths the parishioners went to were attested to by Charles Longley, Bishop of Ripon and later Archbishop of Canterbury. He stayed at Haworth Parsonage on a pastoral visit in March 1853, and Patrick explained how he had come into the curacy there. It was a tale so fantastic that Bishop Longley immediately wrote to his wife Caroline with its details:

  ‘There is an ancient feud between Bradford and Haworth … the people of Haworth can by the trust deed of the living, prevent the person appointed by the vicar [of Bradford] from entering the Parsonage or receiving any of the emoluments, if he does not please them… in the case of Mr. Redhead, the inhabitants exercised their right of resistance and opposition and to such a point did they carry it, that they actually brought a Donkey into the church while Mr. Redhead was officiating and held up its head to stare him in the face – they then laid a plan to crush him to death in the vestry, by pushing a table against him as he was taking off his surplice and hanging it up, foiled in this for some reason or other they then turned out into the Churchyard where Mr. Redhead was going to perform a funeral and were determined to throw him into the grave and bury him alive3.’

  Reverend Redhead fled on horseback and escaped with his life. It was clear, however, that he could not return to Haworth at this juncture, and so at last Reverend Heap of Bradford met the villagers to find a compromise. The solution was that Patrick Brontë would after all become curate of Haworth, but it would be the parishioners who would nominate him.

  Patrick and Maria moved to Haworth on 20 April 1820, and they both spent the rest of their lives there. There were ten in the party making the slow journey across the moors, for travelling alongside them were two servants, Nancy Garrs’ younger sister Sarah having also been taken on as a further help, and their now six children. Their youngest child, another daughter, had been born just three months earlier and christened Anne after her maternal grandmother.

  The letters sent to Elizabeth from Yorkshire seemed to bring good news upon good news, but at home in Penzance tragedy had struck again with the death of her only brother Benjamin, who failed suddenly in July 1818. Elizabeth not only had to attend the funeral of the brother she had taken such pride in, the man who had been known for his piety and business acumen alike, and who had brought honour to the Branwells by being made mayor of Penzance, she also had to watch his family fall apart.

  Benjamin’s wife Mary was not used to economising, and eventually had to place her property into the hands of her brother, as recalled in 1855, in a letter sent by Eliza Kingston, the niece of Elizabeth and Benjamin who had been brought to England as a baby, to her brother-in-law Joseph in America:

  ‘My only Maternal Uncle Benjamin Branwell died when I was about 10 years old. He had the bulk of my Grandfather’s property which he left, I understand, rather embarrassed to a widow and 7 children, 3 sons and 4 daughters. Mrs. Branwell and 2 of the sons have been dead some years. She was extravagant and wasted her property, the residue of which she sold to her brother, Mr. J. Batten, and he allowed her an annuity for herself and daughters, the greater part of which fell off at her death. The remainder, which is not quite £17 per year each, they still enjoy, and 3 of them keep a School. The fourth lives alone [Lydia], being in delicate health and rather peculiar in her ways4.’

  In early 1821, the letters Elizabeth received from her sister Maria came to a sudden halt, and the next letter she received from Yorkshire was in a less familiar hand. Ripping open the envelope, not standing on ceremony this time, she knew something was terribly wrong.

  The letter5 was from her brother-in-law Patrick, and although containing all the necessary formality it was obviously written under great strain. He related that Maria, without any prior warning whatsoever, had fallen gravely ill on 29 January 1821, and although she lingered on in great pain, and received all the medical attention available, it seemed that she would undoubtedly soon die. To add to Patrick’s turmoil, his six children had all now contracted scarlet fever, and their lives hung in the balance too.

  A letter sent later to his friend Reverend John Buckworth recalls this dread turn of events, and is likely to resemble the letter he sent at the time to Elizabeth:

  ‘I was at Haworth, a stranger in a strange land. It was under these circumstances, after every earthly prop was removed, that I was called on to bear the weight of the greatest load of sorrows that ever pressed upon me. One day, I remember it well; it was a gloomy day, a day of clouds and darkness, three of my little children were taken ill of scarlet fever; and, the day after, the remaining three were in the same condition. Just at that time death seemed to have laid his hand on my dear wife in a manner which threatened her speedy dissolution. She was cold and silent and seemed hardly to notice what was passing around her6.’

  Elizabeth’s mind raced as she slumped into a chair, letter clenched tightly in her hand. Her sister, nephew, and five nieces, including her goddaughter Elizabeth, could all be on the brink of death while she was helpless 400 miles away. What could she do? Her heart breaking, it was not within her to wait silently in Cornwall for the next letter which would be contained within a cold, black border. This life in Cornwall was one she had known and loved since she was a child, but what was it compared to the family she had grown so close to in Thornton? She knew that she could be sacrificing everything, but she did so readily. A letter was hastily written and despatched to Patrick, with the news that she would follow it. A response would not have found Elizabeth in Penzance, but there was no need for a response as Elizabeth’s reaction was just what Patrick had expected and prayed for.

  Saying goodbye to Charlotte and her family once more, and doubtless making a further call upon Jane and Eliza, Elizabeth explained that she planned to return after Maria’s illness had reached its conclusion, good or bad. In her heart, however, she must have suspected that this might not be the case. It was a sombre farewell, and as her coach crossed into Devon, she took one last, lingering look backwards; she would never see Cornwall again.

  Elizabeth arrived in Haworth in the summer of 1821, and found that it was very different to Thornton. It was at a much higher elevation, and the church of St Michael and All Angels, and the parsonage behind it, were at the top of a very steep hill then called Kirkgate, now known as Main Street to the throngs of tourists who walk up its incline every year. It was also apparent that Haworth was a more industrial location with mills in its valley, and smoke rising from a plethora of woolcombers’ houses.

  Reaching the parsonage, she saw that beyond it lay a great expanse of moorland with the purple heather then just coming into bloom, but it held no beauty for her. Dreadfully fatigued from the journey made in the height of summer, and from the stressful anticipation of what she was about to see, Elizabeth crossed a bare garden, climbed seven short stone steps and rapped with some trepidation upon the door.

  The Patrick Brontë that opened the door to her was markedly different to the one she had left in Thornton five years earlier; the weary signs of grief were etched upon his face, but he bowed deeply and greeted her with warmth. Behind him were Nancy and Sarah Garrs, who she knew, and then the children were introduced to her. Elizabeth, to her great relief, found that during the course of her journey all six children had recovered from scarlet fever. Maria and Elizabeth were now girls aged 8 and 6, Charlotte was no longer a baby, although she was small for her 5 years, Branwell, just turned 4, looked on with a confident gaze, and a toddling Emily remained with shy suspicion in a corner. Anne, the baby of one year, was in her cot, but looking down at her for the first time Elizabeth was struck by the Branwell family likeness already evident in the child; it is a likeness that can be seen today by comparing pictu
res of Anne, her mother, and her grandfather Thomas.

  Once the introductions had been made, and despite her increasing tiredness, Elizabeth asked to be shown to her sister who, from the lack of mourning clothes within the house, she knew was still living. Patrick ushered her into a darkened room, from which, as they entered, a nursemaid in her late-twenties, whom Patrick had recently hired, exited with a haughty air. The sight that greeted Elizabeth was shocking; her younger sister was terribly gaunt, and lying cold and silent as the letter had foretold. Elizabeth whispered Maria’s name, and her sister’s head turned towards her; a thin hand reached out and was grasped with tender affection. Patrick walked quietly from the room, leaving the sisters together with their great love and their sorrow.

  For the next few days, Elizabeth supervised the actions of the maid, Martha Wright, and she was far from impressed by what she saw. After conferring with Patrick, something he would become used to over the next twenty years, it was agreed that Martha’s services were no longer needed. Whether the dismissal was fair or not we shall never know, but it was remembered and resented by Martha, and it was she who was the source of the unflattering stories about Patrick, and to a lesser extent Elizabeth, in Mrs. Gaskell’s biography of Charlotte7.

  Elizabeth herself now took charge of her sister’s care, and there could have been no more attentive nurse, but as the days and weeks passed Maria’s already parlous condition deteriorated. The local physician, Dr Thomas Andrew, was consulted regularly8, and no expense was spared in seeking help from doctors and surgeons further afield, but it was all in vain. Those who loved Maria now prayed, not for her recovery, but for her release from further torment.

  It is commonly believed today that Maria Brontë died from cancer of the uterus, but this was disputed by the pre-eminent obstetrician and gynaecologist, Professor Philip Rhodes, who examined the known facts surrounding her death in 1972. He concluded that it was unlikely that Maria would have cancer of the uterus at her age, 38, and after having given birth successfully to six children. He instead believed that Maria died as a result of an infection contracted after Anne’s birth the year before:

  ‘All in all, I would lean to the idea of chronic pelvic sepsis together with increasing anaemia as the probable cause of her death. It is to be remembered that this was before the age of bacteriological knowledge … Gynaecological knowledge was primitive, there was no ante-natal care and no attempt at follow-up after childbirth9.’

  Maria was often insensible or screaming in agony, but at times when the pain abated temporarily her focus was always on her children, although Martha Wright reported that sometimes she would only see one child at a time as otherwise it upset her too greatly as she thought of how they would soon be left motherless10. At other time she would call out ‘Oh God - my poor children!11’; it was almost too much for Elizabeth to bear but she sat by her sister’s side through it all. Whether verbally or simply by a knowing smile, she let Maria know that she would be there for her children, come what may.

  Elizabeth and Patrick were at the head of Maria’s bedside on 15 September 1821, when she drew her last, strained breath and after eight months of agony achieved a final peace. Conventions put to one side, Patrick and Elizabeth placed their arms around each other and wept bitterly, as they embarked upon days of stunned, silent mourning. Patrick had lost the woman he loved, and without the presence of his sister-in-law it would have been beyond his endurance. He paid tribute to Elizabeth’s role at this time in his letter to John Buckland two months after Maria’s death:

  ‘Her sister, Miss Branwell, arrived, and afforded great comfort to my mind, which has been the case ever since, by sharing my labours and sorrows, and behaving as an affectionate mother to my children12.’

  Elizabeth Branwell had done her duty, but neither she nor her brother-in-law could have known she would continue to do it for another twenty-one years.

  Chapter 9

  This May Be Her Home as Long as She Lives

  ‘“My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,” she observed, “and she is fond of Staningley too: I brought you here to offer a petition in her behalf that this may be her home as long as she lives, and – if it be not our home likewise – that I may often see her and be with her; for I fear she will be sorry to lose me; and, though she leads a retired and contemplative life, she is apt to get low-spirited if left too much alone.”’

  Anne Brontë, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

  Elizabeth probably planned to spend around a year in Haworth, as she had done in Thornton in happier times; this would give her time to observe a proper and correct mourning period for her sister Maria, and to ensure that a suitable maid was in place to look after her nephew and nieces; she even hoped that her brother-in-law would find another wife who could then become a second mother to the children, allowing her to return to Cornwall with a more optimistic heart. It was not to be.

  Patrick had been very much in love with Maria, which wasn’t necessarily to be expected at a time when many married for social or financial reasons. His wife’s death left him bereft of energy, bereft of hope almost, but he knew that he must carry on for the sake of his children. It needed little prompting from Elizabeth for him to realise also that he should look for a second wife.

  It was commonplace for widowers to re-marry quickly after the death of their spouse, especially if they had a young family. A perfect example of this was John Firth of Kipping House, who married Anne Greame just a year after his first wife Elizabeth was killed in a tragic accident after being thrown from a horse1.

  Patrick and John had been very close in Thornton, and he would have made an ideal confidante at this time of grieving, but unfortunately for Patrick, Dr Firth himself died at the end of 1820, and Patrick had returned to Thornton to conduct his funeral shortly before Maria fell mortally ill2.

  Despite having lost her father so recently, the 23-year-old Elizabeth Firth still went out of her way to help the Brontë family at their time of need. She visited Haworth Parsonage more than once during Maria’s final illness, and on 26 May, she and her friend Fanny Outhwaite, who like Elizabeth had a year earlier been made a godmother to Anne Brontë, brought the eldest children, Maria and Elizabeth, to Kipping House for a month to offer them some respite3.

  As the sad year 1821 drew to a close, Patrick and Elizabeth Branwell shared not only fond reminiscences of Maria but also frank discussions about what they were to do next. Inevitably talks of another marriage often surfaced, but Patrick’s ham-fisted attempts to secure a wife would prove highly ineffectual. One example came in 1823, when he wrote to a woman named Mary Burder in Wethersfield, Essex, who he had seemingly been engaged to at the start of his career as a minister. The reason for the breaking off of their engagement is not known, but it was clearly something Mary remembered with bitter clarity, as her reply to his postal proposal a decade-and-a-half later shows:

  ‘Whether those ardent professions of devoted lasting attachment were sincere is now to me a matter of but little consequence. “What I have seen and heard” certainly leads me to conclude very differently. With these my present views of past occurrences is it possible think you that I or my dear Parent could give you a cordial welcome to the Park as an old friend? Indeed I must give a decided negative to the desired visit. I know of no ties of friendship ever existing between us which the last eleven or twelve years have not severed or at least placed an insuperable bar to any revival4.’

  Mary Burder was not the only name to be crossed off the list of potential suitors. In January 1824, we have a letter from Isabella Dury of Keighley, four miles from Haworth, to her friend Miss Mariner. Isabella was the younger sister of Reverend Theodore Dury, the vicar of Keighley and a friend of Patrick, but she seems to have taken his proposal less than seriously:

  ‘I heard before I left Keighley that my brother & I had quarrelled about poor Mr Brontë, I beg you if ever you hear such a report that you will contradict it as I can assure you it is perfectly unfounded, I think I never sh
ould be so very silly as to have the most distant idea of marrying anybody who had not some fortune, and six children into the bargain. It is too ridiculous to imagine any truth in it5.’

  The first rejection Patrick had was a particularly crushing one as it came from a woman he held in the highest esteem; a woman that Elizabeth thought highly of too, the woman she had burst into tears at when taking her departure five years earlier – Elizabeth Firth.

  Elizabeth Branwell encouraged Patrick to make the attempt. Here was a woman who already knew and loved the children, and was even godmother to two of them; she was kind and caring, as demonstrated by her actions during Maria’s illness, and after the death of her father she was also a woman of some means. If Patrick could convince Miss Firth to become his wife, then Elizabeth would be free to return to Cornwall. It was a fervent hope, but she must have suspected all along that it was also a forlorn one.

  Elizabeth Firth was shocked and dismayed at the proposal from the man who was twenty-one years her senior, and whose wife, who she had held as a great friend, had died only three months previously. Her diary entry for 14 December 1821 is twelve words long, eight of them underlined, but it conceals much:

  ‘I wrote my last letter to Mr Brontë. Mr Franks to dinner6.’

  The letter formalised her rejection of Patrick’s proposal of marriage. There is then a gap of fourteen days with no diary entries; presumably Elizabeth was too angry to lift her pen. This anger lasted two years, during which she had no communication at all with Patrick, although the healing properties of time, and her kindly nature, eventually led to them regaining friendly terms. The Mr Franks she referred to in her diary was Reverend James Franks, a man who held Elizabeth’s heart and whom she later married.