Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (22 page)

Rain fell as I rode in the wagon, whose tattered canopy did little to keep me dry. The moors were sodden, the morning sky an unrelieved gray. When I reached the village of drab stone cottages, I felt like a sailor who has been lost at sea and finds himself miraculously washed up on the shore of his native land. But, even though Haworth was the same as it had been forever, my own position there had changed during recent years.

The farmers, shopkeepers, and housewives I met spoke their usual respectful greetings to me, but when I passed, I heard the buzz of conversation: “What a surprise that our Miss Brontë turned out to be the famous authoress!”

I was no longer just the spinster daughter of their parson, for my fame had spread to Yorkshire. Indeed, the local people had been the first to deduce Currer Bell's identity. The postmistress had noticed the many letters and packages I received from London, and I suspected that she'd opened my correspondence with my publisher and gossiped about it. The cat was let out of the bag when the brother of my old school friend had gone about bragging that he knew Charlotte Brontë was Currer Bell. But the fact that I was an object of gossip, stares, and criticism was my own fault. I had written fictional settings and characters that bore too strong a resemblance to those real places and people upon which they were based. Too many folks had recognized them and decided that only a local person could have written
Jane Eyre
and
Shirley
. They'd eventually tracked Currer Bell to my door.

The wagon left me at the bottom of the road that led up the hill to my house, the gray-brick parsonage. Although I was nearly ill from exhaustion, my heart was lighter than it had been since the day I'd seen Slade in Bedlam. The stimulating essence of inspiration flowed, and suddenly I knew what my next step should be.

In order to find Slade, I must first find Niall Kavanagh. In order to find Kavanagh, I must go back to the point where this whole business had started.

Unfortunately, that was not to happen without complications.

As I toiled up the hill, I met Arthur Bell Nicholls, my father's curate. He lumbered along beside me. A tall, heavily built man, he had heavy features in a square face adorned with thick black eyebrows and side-whiskers. “Back from London, are ye?” he said in his strong Irish brogue.

He often seized on opportunities to talk to me, and more often of late. I didn't understand why, since we had little in common. Mr. Nicholls was a stolid, conventional man of the cloth, while I hardly led a conventional life. I didn't much care for him, and today I was in no mood for his dull attentions.

“If I weren't back, you wouldn't be seeing me here, would you?” I said.

He laughed heartily, as though I'd made a joke. I had the grace to feel ashamed, for he was a good man, diligent in his duties and a great help to Papa, kind to everyone and loved by the villagers. My terrible experiences in London were no excuse for treating him ill.

I forced myself to smile and make polite conversation. “It's good to be home. Did anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

“I went to visit friends in Hebden Bridge,” Mr. Nicholls said.

“They're all reading a book called
Shirley
, by an author named Currer Bell.” His eyes twinkled. He liked to pretend that Currer Bell's identity was still a secret—one that we shared. When he spoke the name, he always emphasized the word “Bell.” He seemed to think it meant something special that I'd chose his middle name for my nom de plume. I'd never told him it was a joke that my sisters and I had played on him. “They had much to say about the scenes with the curates.”

Everyone had too much to say about those scenes, which featured characters based on local clergymen. I'd portrayed them as fools. Some people thought my portraits were right on the mark. Others thought me disgraceful for lampooning men of God. Mr. Nicholls had found the scenes hilarious. He read them aloud to anyone who would listen.

“They especially like the character of Mr. Macarthey.” That was the character based on Mr. Nicholls, who paraphrased, “‘Being human, of course he had his faults; these, however, were what many would call virtues. Otherwise he was sane and rational, diligent and charitable.'”

Mr. Nicholls smiled proudly. I regretted that I'd let him off more lightly than the other clergymen. He thought it meant I liked him. When we reached the parsonage, he followed me up the stairs. “I'll just stop in for a word with your father.” He added mischievously, “Ye'll find a surprise waiting for ye inside.”

Having had enough surprises to last me the rest of my life, I warily opened the door. My best friend Ellen Nussey came hurrying into the hall. “Charlotte!” All smiles, dressed in a lace-trimmed green frock that complemented her blonde hair, she embraced me affectionately.

“Ellen.” I was glad to see her, but she could have picked a better time. “What are you doing here?”

“I knew you were coming back from London, so I decided to pop in.” She giggled; her light blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Although thirty-four years old, Ellen often behaved like the school-girl she'd been when we'd first met. “I can't wait to hear all about your trip!”

She had been avidly interested in my literary career since she'd learned that I was Currer Bell. At first she'd been hurt because I hadn't told her earlier, but her gentle nature couldn't hold a grudge. She took vicarious pleasure from my doings, perhaps because her own life was dull. Born into a wealthy family, she'd never had to earn a living. Not having married, she occupied herself with visiting her friends, fancy sewing, and caring for her elderly mother. Once I had envied her affluence; now I pitied her dependency and boredom, and I shared as much of my good fortune with her as possible.

She noticed Arthur Nicholls standing in the doorway. “Oh, it's you. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

Ellen disliked Mr. Nicholls, and not only because she found him sanctimonious. She'd always been possessive, but my fame had increased her tendency to resent other people I knew because she feared they might take her place as my best friend. I should have tried to talk her out of it ages ago, but I was reluctant to hurt her feelings. Ellen was so loyal, so ready to give of herself whenever I needed her. Ellen had helped me nurse Anne during her fatal illness and supported me during the awful time of Anne's passing. Whatever Ellen wanted in return, she deserved. If she tried to drive a wedge between me and other folk, I couldn't object, and I didn't want Mr. Nicholls around, either.

“I happened to see Miss Brontë, so I escorted her home,” Mr. Nicholls said, clearly mystified as to why Ellen didn't like him. “I thought that since I was here, I might as well have a word with her father.”

“By all means have one.” Ellen waved him toward Papa's study. “Don't bother Charlotte anymore. She's probably exhausted from her trip. Give her some peace!” She put her arm around me. “You're just in time for breakfast. While we eat, you can tell me everything.”

She took a second look at me, and her eyebrows rose. “Why, Charlotte, you've got a new frock. It's very nice.” A shadow crossed her face. It wasn't that Ellen didn't like me to have new clothes; rather, she feared I would change into someone too elegant for the likes of her. “Why, I do believe you've bought a whole new outfit. Wasn't that a bit extravagant?”

I couldn't tell her that I'd paid nothing for the clothes; that would lead to questions about how I'd come by them. Ellen wasn't aware that I knew the Queen. Ellen had played a part in my adventures of 1848, but she didn't know the whole story. Fortunately, Papa emerged from his study and interrupted our conversation. “Ah, Charlotte. Welcome home.”

“Hello, Papa,” I said, as glad to see him as he clearly was to see me. “How are you?”

He was an imposing figure—tall and upright, with thick white hair, broad shoulders, and noble features. At the age of seventy-four, he still walked the moors every day, visiting his parishioners. “Just a touch of bronchitis,” he said, fingering the white silk muffler he wore to protect his throat from drafts even in summertime. He squinted anxiously at me through his spectacles. “But what about you, Charlotte? You look thin and pale. Are you ill?”

Ever since Anne, Emily, and Branwell had died, Papa had been terrified of losing me as well. He constantly searched me for signs that I had consumption. “No, I'm fine,” I said.

If I were to be tried for murder, he would have to know eventually, but I didn't want to upset him prematurely and tax his health. I was afraid of losing him, too; we were all the family that each of us had left.

“Ellen will take good care of you.” Papa smiled fondly at her, then noticed Mr. Nicholls hovering by the door. “Oh, hello, Arthur. Won't you join us for breakfast?”

“Yes, thank ye.”

Following us to the dining room, Arthur cast a triumphant glance at Ellen, who pouted and grabbed the chair next to mine so that he couldn't sit there. Our servant, Martha Brown, brought our oatmeal, eggs, bread, and tea. The others ate heartily, but my stomach was upset, and the tension between Ellen and Mr. Nicholls didn't help my appetite. Nonetheless, I was glad they were here. They occupied the places at the table that had once belonged to Anne and Emily. It was still hard for me to bear seeing those two vacant chairs.

“Did you meet anybody famous in London?” Ellen asked eagerly.

I told her about Mr. Thackeray and his lecture. That seemed a safe enough subject, but Ellen soon said, “How is your debonair Mr. George Smith?”

“He's not
my
Mr. Smith,” I said, vexed because Ellen always teased me about him. She insisted that he had romantic feelings toward me. I had always told her not to be silly. Little had I known that he would prove her correct.

“But he is your special friend. You write to each other so often.” Ellen raised her eyebrow at me and smiled at Mr. Nicholls.

I understood what she was about. She didn't want me to marry George, or anyone else, because my having a husband would leave me less time for her, but she wanted to serve notice on Mr. Nicholls that I was unavailable. She thought he was interested in me! And she was correct again. That was why he paid me such frequent attentions!

Mr. Nicholls looked startled and abashed, then mortified by the realization on my face. His face turned red. We couldn't meet each other's eyes.

“Has Mr. Smith proposed to you, Charlotte?” Papa asked anxiously. He didn't want me to marry, either. He often said that my health wasn't strong enough for marriage, and he didn't want me to go away and leave him all alone.

“No, indeed,” I said. Not yet, at any rate.

“Well, I'm glad he doesn't have designs on you,” Papa said, relieved.

“Maybe he doesn't,” Ellen said, “but maybe someone closer to home does.” She bent an accusing glare on Mr. Nicholls.

Papa froze, his teacup lifted halfway to his mouth. “Do you, Arthur?”

He stared at his curate, who sank low in his chair. I wanted to scold Ellen for stirring up trouble. I wanted to put my head on the table and groan.

“I—well, ah—” Mr. Nicholls blushed crimson all the way down to his clerical collar.

Papa set down his teacup. He rose from his chair in such a wrath that he reminded me of God expelling Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. Ellen looked delighted but scared. I desperately sought a way to forestall disaster. Noticing a movement outside the open window, I pointed and said, “What is that?”

Papa paused, drawing his breath. We never heard what he meant to say to his curate who'd betrayed his trust by plotting to steal his daughter. He, Ellen, and Mr. Nicholls looked toward the window. There was the head of a man, who smiled cheerily at us.

“Hey!” Mr. Nicholls said. “Who are ye?”

I'd staved off an explosion that would have rocked the parish, but dismay filled me. “Oliver Heald.”

“At your service.” Mr. Heald doffed his hat. “Good morning, Miss Brontë.”

“Do you know this man?” Ellen asked.

“We met in London,” Mr. Heald said. “I'm one of her most fervent admirers.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I wanted to see where you live.”

Ellen sighed in exasperation. “Not this again.”

Mr. Heald wasn't the only curiosity seeker who'd ever bearded me in my den. Once, the vicar of Batley had shown up, demanded to see me, bullied Martha into letting him into the parlor, and stayed an hour before consenting to leave. Another time, some society ladies and gentlemen had dropped by. They'd included two Members of Parliament who had literary pretensions and wanted to meet Currer Bell. Their nerve had astounded me, but not as much as Oliver Heald's did.

“Mr. Heald, this is the third time you have imposed yourself upon me,” I said. “Of all the inconsiderate people I have met, you take the prize! Please go away.”

Mr. Heald ducked out of the window before I'd finished speaking. In a moment I heard the front door open, and Mr. Heald walked right into the dining room.

Ellen gasped. “How dare you?”

Mr. Nicholls rose and put himself between Mr. Heald and me. “Didn't you hear Miss Brontë? She doesn't want you here.”

“Sir, you are trespassing,” Papa said.

Mr. Heald just looked around in delight. “So this is your home.” He wandered into the parlor, touching the furniture. “Oh, everything is lovely!”

We rushed after him. Ellen said, “I shall fetch the police!”

Papa hurried upstairs, then came back with the pistol he carried to protect himself when he walked the moors. He brandished it at Mr. Heald. “If you don't leave at once, I'll shoot!”