The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (12 page)

“You will have no cause to miss me now. I am here—and will remain here, until the day Lydia Robinson is free. Then she will marry me, I will be lord of her estate, and live in genteel splendour with her for the rest of my life.”

My heart sank. “Branwell, please tell me you are not serious.”

“About what?”

“You cannot truly expect to
marry
Mrs. Robinson!”

“Of course I do. Her husband is very sickly. It will not be long now until he dies.”

“What a sick and morbid thing to say, even sicker to say it with hope in your eyes.”

“I am not the only person who hopes and longs for it. Lydia does not love her husband. She loves me.”

“Oh, Branwell. Even if that is true—do you truly think a woman of her rank and fortune would marry a man seventeen years her junior, with whom she had a scandalous affair?”

“I know she will. She told me we would be together for ever. I have only to wait. And while I am waiting, I will not sit idle. I intend to find some occupation, and—I promise you—I will remain sober as a judge.”

Keeping that promise proved to be beyond Branwell’s power. The very next afternoon, while my father was out on church business with Anne as his aide, and Emily was up in her room doing I knew not what, I was reading in the dining-room, when I heard shouts from outside, followed by a rap at the front door.

To my mortification, I encountered my brother on the doorstep, hurling drunken obscenities and being physically restrained and supported by Mr. Nicholls.

Since my return from my trip to Hathersage, every time I had seen Mr. Nicholls come up the walk on his way to meet with papa, I had gone upstairs, or sequestered myself in the dining-room behind a closed door. Now, there was no avoiding him.

“I was passing by the Black Bull,” announced Mr. Nicholls, as he strained to control my struggling brother, “when he and another gentleman burst out the door, cursing and throwing punches at one another. I sensed an outright brawl was likely, and thought it best to bring him home.”

“Unhand me, you God-damned, miserable lout!” thundered Branwell with savage vehemence, as he vigorously and fruitlessly attempted to break free, “or I’ll set the dogs on you, I swear to God I will!” Although my brother had engaged in boxing with the town toughs for some years in his youth, he was long out of practice; and despite his drink-fueled anger, he was in size and frame no match for the much taller, much-sturdier-built Mr. Nicholls.

“I have no fear of dogs,” retorted that gentleman, “in fact, I
particularly like them.” To me, he added somewhat apologetically, “Where would you like me to put him?”

“In the dining-room,” said I, my cheeks warm with embarrassment, as I stepped back to admit him. Every one in the village, I knew, had been apprised of my brother’s dismissal from his post within a day of its occurrence. As a result of Branwell’s repeated, drunken outpourings of heart and soul at the pub, they were now equally well acquainted with every sordid detail of his humiliating conduct there, and his absurd expectations for his future. I cringed when I saw the pity in the eyes of the shopkeepers on Main Street; my heart smote me when I observed the averted gazes of the congregation on Sunday, when papa took his place at the pulpit; but I felt even greater shame to think that our new curate should be such a close observer of Branwell’s decline.

I already knew that Mr. Nicholls regarded me as a dried-up, bitter old maid, too unattractive to look upon. My father was a nearly-blind old man; add to that a drunken sot of a brother, who started brawls in the middle of the afternoon; how he must pity me, and my whole household! How he must laugh at us behind our backs! Still, I thought, I must not let my wounded pride get the better of me. As the curate dragged a still-squirming and swearing Branwell into the dining-room, I squared my shoulders and followed, determined that Mr. Nicholls would never know how much his cruel comment that night at tea had hurt me; indeed, if I could help it, he would never perceive a moment of weakness from me.

Mr. Nicholls deposited my brother in an easy chair, where, maintaining a firm grip, he insisted upon a verbal promise from his captive to sit still and quietly, before he would set him free. Branwell uttered another oath, and then reluctantly agreed.

“Villain!” Branwell spat out, as Mr. Nicholls let him go. “How
dare
you! I am the parson’s son, by God! I warn you, Nicholls: if you ever touch me like that again, I’ll have you shot, or sent back to Ireland!”

“Let us pray, then, that a similar occasion does not ever
arise,” was the curate’s rejoinder, as he straightened his black coat and adjusted his collar.

“Branwell, please do not address Mr. Nicholls in such an insolent manner,” said I.

“I’ll address him any way I like,” snarled Branwell. “Now get out, Nicholls! You have done your Christian duty. You have played the Good Samaritan, and brought the prodigal son home. Now go back to church where you belong.”

Emily suddenly entered the room, a concerned look on her countenance. Martha, close at her heels, stopped just inside the doorway, where she crossed her arms and shook her head. “La, la, an’ what have we here, Maister Branwell? Two o’clock i’ th’ afternoon, an’ already three sheets t’ th’ wind?”

“Martha,” urged Branwell, with a sudden smile, and a voice diffused with charm, “be a good girl and bring me some of that wine I know you keep in the locked cupboard.”

“I will not, sir,” said Martha.

“Emily? Surely you would not deny your brother a drop, in his hour of need?”

“I believe you have had quite enough already,” observed Emily quietly.

Branwell sank farther down into his chair in a sullen pout. “You are parasites, the lot of you! Determined to suck the life out of me.”

Turning to Mr. Nicholls, I said with cool formality, “I am very grateful to you, sir, for bringing my brother home.” When I raised my eyes to his, to my surprise, I did not encounter the pity and derision I had anticipated; instead, I found compassion and concern, tempered by humility—and nerves.

“Will you be all right, Miss Brontë?” asked Mr. Nicholls quietly.

In some confusion, I replied: “I will, thank you. Martha and Emily are here.”

He nodded and glanced at the door. I hoped he would leave then, but he did not; he stood for some moments in the centre of the room, deep in thought, as if trying to drum up the courage
to ask something. I was perplexed and a little annoyed; why was this tall, strong man, who had, only moments before, single-handedly tamed and dragged home my wayward brother, now standing before me like a timid statue?

The sudden sound of snoring filled the room; I saw with relief that Branwell was fast asleep in his chair. The noise seemed a humorous but fitting end to so much drama; and alternating as it did from brief, nasal snuffles to harsh, vibrating snorts, it was so comical in nature, that I struggled to hold back a smile. The sound seemed to breathe life back into Mr. Nicholls, for he smiled, too; then he let out a laugh. Emily and Martha were equally infected; soon I could not help but join in the laughter. For some moments we all indulged, straining to laugh as quietly as possible, so as not to wake the errant sleeper.

Emily now turned and bumped into the table, accidentally knocking a candlestick to the floor with a clatter. She caught her breath in alarm; all eyes flew to the easy chair; but its occupant continued snoring unabated, causing a renewed outburst of laughter.

Martha left the room, still chuckling. Mr. Nicholls cleared his throat. He looked down at me, then at Emily, and said, “Miss Brontë, Miss Emily: there is something I have been wanting to ask you. I wonder: would you consider allowing me to take one or both of your dogs for a walk on the moors now and again? I enjoy a daily stroll and would be grateful for the company.”

The request took me by surprise. “It is not my place to say, sir,” I replied, with a glance at Emily.

After some hesitation, Emily said, “I am certain Flossy would be delighted to accompany you, sir, but I must ask Anne, first. I am only his care-taker; he is her dog, in point of fact. As for Keeper: you have my blessing, but I will leave the final decision up to him.”

“I will stop by in the morning, then,” rejoined Mr. Nicholls, looking pleased. He bowed, and with a parting glance at Branwell, added, “Should you require any further assistance, Miss
Brontë, to-day or at any other time, please do not hesitate to call on me.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Nicholls,” said I.

With a nod, he departed.

The summer passed. Papa and my sisters and I watched in helpless dismay as Branwell became a steadily weaker and more nervous wreck. Mrs. Robinson sent Branwell money, and, I believe, even met with him secretly once or twice at an inn in Harrogate; he kept apprised of her news via letters from her lady’s maid and doctor, and never attempted to break the ties that bound him to her.

When money arrived from “his darling Lydia,” or whenever Branwell managed to wheedle a few shillings out of papa or his friend John Brown, he either went straight down to Betty Hardacre’s to buy a dose of oblivion, or he crept off to the Black Bull. After several hours of hard drinking, he would stumble home singing or laughing like a lunatic, or (on more occasions than I wish to remember) he was brought home, angry and irascible, by the ever-patient Mr. Nicholls.

When Branwell had no money to support his habits, he lay about the parsonage day and night in a frustrated rage, screaming at us over nothing and reducing us to tears. When I reminded him that he had promised to seek employment, he wrote to his friend Francis Grundy, badgering him for a position on the railway, but he received no encouragement. He refused to go to church; he refused to assist with any household duties; he refused to do anything, except to make us all wretched.

“I am a soul in torment. I am in hell!” Branwell would cry with stricken countenance, as he paced up and down before the hearth like a caged beast, while my sisters and I engaged in our nightly sewing, knitting, or ironing. “Lydia! Lydia! Oh! My heart’s darling! I’ll have her in my arms again! I cannot live without my soul!”

“If this truly be love,” observed Emily with a frown, “then I hope and pray
I
never experience it.”

Our despair over Branwell’s decline, however, was soon eclipsed by an astonishing—and fateful—event, which was to move our fortunes in an entirely new and promising direction.

It was the 9th of October, 1845. That morning, I went into Emily’s room at the top of the stairs, intending to make up her bed with a fresh set of sheets, when I chanced to find Emily’s portable writing-desk lying open on the bed. This was most unusual. Emily always kept her desk closed and locked. I had, a few times in the past (on those rare occasions when Emily had left her door open) observed her writing in her room, with Keeper at her feet and her desk upon her lap. I knew that Emily rarely wrote letters; she had no friends with whom to correspond; but she was such a fiercely private person, I did not dare ask her what she was working on.

To-day, not only was the desk unfolded upon the bed, but a note-book lay open upon the sloped writing surface. Emily’s pen lay beside it, and her ink bottle, in the little compartment at the top, was uncapped, as if she had been interrupted in the very act of composition. The bed stood directly in front of the open window; the sky beyond was a cloudy grey, which threatened rain; and a breeze blew in, ruffling the pages of the note-book. I instantly worried that some harm might come to it.

I quickly set down the folded bed-sheets and capped the ink bottle. I was about to close and put away the note-book in the little desk drawer, when the poetic lines atop the page—for a poem it was (and, as it turned out, a long one; this was from the final page)—grabbed my attention:

My heart, inexplicably, began to pound; I knew I should stop reading; Emily would not like me to continue. But those two short stanzas sparked my interest. They contained such a wonderful vibrancy and musicality; I could not help but wonder what the poem was about. Who was Rochelle? Why and where was she a prisoner? Who was the speaker? Was the rest of the poem as good as those few lines?

I picked up the note-book. It was a limp-backed, wine-coloured volume, similar to one or two of my own, resembling nothing more elegant than a laundry book; the cover was inscribed “Emily Jane Brontë. GONDAL POEMS.” I leafed through it. The faintly-lined pages were filled, in Emily’s minute, cramped hand, with a great quantity of poems—poems that she had apparently drafted elsewhere, and transcribed here in their final form for safe-keeping. Although Emily’s minuscule handwriting was difficult for some to decipher, I was familiar with it. Many of the poems had composition dates; most were untitled, but at the head of some appeared a person’s name or two, or simply initials, which (I reasoned) must represent the
dramatis personae
portrayed in the poems.

So
this
is what Emily had been up to every time she locked herself away in her room! She had been writing poetry about her fictional world of Gondal!

I was not entirely surprised by this discovery; I had always known that Emily could and did write verse. As children, we used to share everything we wrote, and seek each other’s advice and counsel. Of late years, due to prolonged periods of separation, and a growing desire for privacy, this habit had been discontinued. I realised, now, that I was entirely ignorant of the progress Emily had made.

I knew for a fact that Emily and Anne had just gone out with
the dogs for a long walk. Branwell was still in bed, after a very late return from the tavern; Tabby was also asleep; papa was downstairs in his study; Martha was in the kitchen. Conscience told me that I should go about my business, make Emily’s bed, and leave; but Conscience fought a brief, silent war with Curiosity.