The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (14 page)

“He is despicable of late, no question,” agreed Anne with a sigh, “but he is the only one of us who
has
been published.”

“Yes,” said I, “but this book will require hard work. After we revise and copy out our poems, we shall have a great many letters to write; if we are fortunate enough to secure a publisher, there will be decisions to make, and proofs to read. I doubt Branwell could stay sober long enough to be of any use in the process.”

“Even if he did,” added Emily, “knowing Branwell, he might try to take the project away from us, insisting that—as he is the
man
—he knows how to do everything best.”

“Which, in his present state of mind, would prove disastrous,” said I. “For once, I would like to do something that is just
ours
; to prove that three women, working together, can accomplish something worthwhile and wonderful, with no men involved. What do you say?”

“I say yes,” exclaimed Anne and Emily together.

With great excitement, we began to prepare our little volume. We chose nineteen poems of mine, and twenty-one each by Emily and Anne. We agreed from the outset that we should submit the manuscript as the work of three pseudonymous authors, and gave great consideration to the choice of pen names.

“If we cannot be Brontës, do let us have a name that at least
begins
with a
B,
” said Anne.

We considered and rejected “Baker” as too provincial, “Byron” as too grand, “Bennett” as too Welsh, “Buchanan” as too Scottish, and “Brown” as too dull. Anne suggested “Bewley,” but Emily thought that sounded too much like the bleat of a wounded animal, and the names “Bolster,” “Bigler,” and “Blenkinsop” only reduced us to tears of laughter.

We gave serious thought to our choice of Christian names, as well. We did not want to declare ourselves women, but at the same time, we did not wish to assume names too positively masculine, as that would be an outright lie.

“There are many names that are unspecific as to gender,” said I.

“I intend to choose a name that begins with the same first letter as my Christian name,” declared Anne.

“Let us all do that,” said I. “Let us be perfectly, cleverly alliterative.”

We offered up for scrutiny every ambiguous-sounding Christian name we could think of that began with
C, E,
and
A.
At any given point in time, we might have become “Cameron, Elliot, and Aubrey Brook,” “Cassidy, Eustace, and Ashton Beech,” or “Chase, Emery, and Adrian Bristol.”

At length, we settled on Currer, Ellis, and Acton for our Christian names. At the end of October, we were still engaged in heavy debate about our surname, when all the most prominent members of our community gathered to celebrate the installation of our new peal of bells.

The original bells in our church tower had been old and comparatively small, the first dating from 1664, the other two added in the 1740s. Papa, wishing to improve their sound and status, and to make it possible for Haworth’s team of ringers to engage in the new fashion of change-ringing competitions, had, that spring, organised a committee to raise a subscription to replace the three old bells with a peal of six. In two months, the money had been raised, enabling him to place an order for the casting of the bells with Mr. Mears of London. The new bells had only just been installed in the tower, and all those who contributed had been invited to an early dinner at the Black Bull Inn, which was to be followed by a bell-ringing ceremony.

My brother, thankfully, arrived sober to the dinner, and remained so for a good hour at least before he had to be carried home. Papa gave a brief welcoming speech to the assembled crowd, and thanked them for their support. John Brown, the sexton, a stout man in his early forties, followed with a litany of testaments in praise of papa’s contributions to the community, with special appreciation for this latest achievement. As my sisters and I enjoyed the hearty meal of cold ham, parsley potatoes, and various vegetables, we listened with pride to the enthusiastic comments from our neighbours.

“You’ve done a wonderful thing, Mr. Brontë,” declared Mr. Malone, the Irishman who ran one of the four beer-houses in
the village, as he came over from the next table to shake papa’s hand. “We can hold our heads up now against the folk in Keighley and Bradford, for truly we have got one of the best sets of bells in all of Yorkshire.”

“So we have, Mr. Malone,” replied papa proudly.

Mrs. Malone leaned towards me and murmured, “A wonder it is, that even with his infirmity, your father continues to work so tirelessly on behalf of the community.”

“My father is a remarkable man,” I agreed.

“Our new curate is a good man, too,” said their daughter Sylvia, a plump, cheerful twenty-five-year-old with auburn curls and a freckled complexion. I had attempted over the years to strike up a conversation with Sylvia at the annual church teas, but as she had never been to school, had no interest in reading, and mainly liked to discuss her interest in and dissatisfaction with all the eligible bachelors in the community, I had never found much common ground between us. Her eyes now darted to a table on the other side of the room, where Mr. Nicholls sat engrossed in lively conversation with his friends Mr. Grant and Mr. Bradley, the curate of nearby Oakworth. “I see Mr. Nicholls every now and then, walking your dogs across the moor,” continued Sylvia with a wide smile. “He is so tall and good-looking.”

“Mr. Nicholls gives a fine reading in church,” observed Mrs. Malone.

“The children at the Day school and Sunday school seem to like him very much,” said Mr. Malone.

“It seems that Mr. Nicholls has taken over the parson’s duties in the parish most capably,” added Mrs. Malone. “Is it true that he handles almost everything now, except the giving of the Sunday sermon?”

“Yes,” I replied coolly. Every morning, I knew, Mr. Nicholls taught religious instruction at the National School; every afternoon, he visited the poor and the sick. He now performed the majority of the marriages, baptisms, and burials in the community; enrollment at the Sunday school had greatly increased under his sway; he led all three Sunday services; and he assisted
papa up the stairs to the high pulpit to deliver the weekly sermon—one of the few obligations not impeded by papa’s near blindness, since papa had always made a practice of speaking extemporaneously, with an uncanny sense of timing that enabled him to finish after precisely thirty minutes. “Mr. Nicholls discharges his duties well,” I added.

“It must be a great relief to Mr. Brontë, to have some one on whom he can rely so completely,” said Sylvia.

“Indeed,” said I. As the Malones turned back to their meal, I sighed and said to my sisters in a low tone, “I do wish people would not go on and on so about the virtues of Mr. Nicholls.”

“All they said is true,” insisted Anne. “With Branwell’s indisposition and papa’s disability, I do not know how we should get on without Mr. Nicholls. We are fortunate to have him.”

“I know; and I admit, I am beginning to think a little better of him than I did previously. He has been helpful to us in times of need; for that I am very grateful—but at the same time, it is upsetting to be
obliged
to be grateful to a man like that.”

“A man like what?” asked Anne. “He is always very polite to me.”

“Did you not see the way Mr. Nicholls lost his temper last Sunday, just because that poor Quaker wore his hat in the church? Mr. Nicholls gave that parishioner such a black, dark look, and spoke to him so harshly, I believe the man may never attend services again.”

“After services,” interjected Emily, “I overheard Mr. Nicholls talking about Dissenters in the most insulting manner. He has no patience or respect for any one who does not follow his High Church views.”

“Mr. Nicholls
is
rather unreasonable on that subject,” admitted Anne, “and he can be rather harsh and insensitive at times—but I still like him—and I feel certain he likes you, Charlotte.”

“Why do you keep saying so? He made very plain what he thinks of me, that night at tea.”

“That was months ago, Charlotte,” said Anne softly. “You
must find it in your heart to forgive him. Have you not noticed the look in Mr. Nicholls’s eyes, every time he has brought Branwell home? And the way he has been staring at you all through dinner?”

I glanced across the room; to my dismay, Mr. Nicholls
was
looking in my direction. Unaccountably, I blushed, and averted my eyes. “He is not looking at me; he is looking at all of us.”

After the cakes and pies had been served, and a great quantity of tea and coffee had been consumed, papa announced that we should gather in the churchyard for the ringing of the bells. Chattering excitedly, the crowd all donned their hats, coats, shawls, and gloves, then filtered outside the inn and surrounded the adjacent church. In the brisk chill of late afternoon, we all stood with eyes focused on the tower, waiting in a fervour of anticipation as the hour drew near.

Then it came: the sudden and joyous clash of the six new bells, ringing out from high above. A hush fell on the crowd as the bells pealed four times in quick succession; then, as the day’s special treat, the bellringers launched into the program they had been practising all week: a rousing musical performance that lasted a full quarter of an hour, its mighty and varied notes resounding through the air with a pleasing musicality. At its conclusion, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause.

“Are they not magnificent!” I exclaimed.

“They are so much more sonorous than the previous bells,” said Emily with a smile.

“What a comfort and delight it will be to hear their regular report, marking the passing hours,” said Anne.

People began to drift away now. As the crowd thinned, I noticed Mr. Nicholls standing some distance away across the yard. Our eyes met; he tipped his hat. I nodded in response; he hesitated, as if contemplating coming over; then he apparently changed his mind, and headed towards his lodging.

My sisters and I were halfway to the door of the parsonage when Emily said suddenly: “What about Bell?”

“What
about
bell?” said I.

“For our literary surname,” explained Emily. “It is Mr. Nicholls’s middle name—his mother’s maiden name, I think. Seeing him just now, and having heard the bells, made me think of it. We could be the anonymous ‘Bell brothers.’”

“Oh!” replied Anne. “I like that. It is a nice, simple name, and it is easy to remember, pronounce, and spell.”

“I would rather not use any name associated with Mr. Nicholls,” said I dubiously.

“Why not?” asked Emily.

“If he finds out we stole his name, he might see it as some kind of personal tribute, which could not be further from the truth.”

“If we
do
publish, we are to be anonymous,” insisted Emily. “Mr. Nicholls will never know a thing about it.”

A brief silence fell. “Well,” said I quietly, as we entered the house, “I suppose ‘Bell’ does have a nice
ring
to it.” We all burst out laughing.

Before we could proceed further on our tenuous first step into publishing, we required a great deal more ink and writing paper, both for copying our poetry, and for the correspondence involved. Writing paper was costly, but we each had a small legacy of £300 from Aunt Branwell—(she had left nothing to our brother, believing that, as a man, he could take care of himself)—and the income from those investments gave us the financial means to pursue a few interests of our own. Having already purchased the last bottle of ink and the last packet of paper in stock at our local stationer and bookseller’s, we were obliged to go to Keighley to buy more.

A few days after the bell-ringing ceremony, leaving Emily to assist papa, and Branwell languishing in typical fashion in bed, Anne and I set out for Keighley. After a brisk walk, we arrived in town just in time to hear the bells in the Keighley church tower strike one o’clock.

“How much lovelier our own church bells sound,” said I with a happy smile, as we opened the door to the stationer’s
shop, to the accompanying tinkle of yet
another
set of tiny bells hanging thereupon. The shop was devoid of customers. The proprietor, a diminutive, bespectacled, and bewhiskered man with rosy cheeks was known to us, as we had applied to him for writing supplies on several occasions over the past twenty years.

“Well, if it isn’t the Misses Brontë!” cried he, looking up from behind the counter. I noted apprehension behind his smile, and wondered if it was occasioned by some news he might have heard regarding Branwell’s indisposition; this, I soon discovered, was not the case. “It has been a great long while since you two ladies crossed our threshold! Why, I almost did not recognise you! How have you been keeping yourselves?”

“Very well, thank you, sir,” I replied.

“Well! What a delight to see you both. Why, Miss Anne, I remember when you were no bigger than a grasshopper. How is your sister—what is her name again?”

“Emily.”

“Yes, Emily. I cannot even recall the last time I saw Emily. She is a shy one, is she not?”

“Emily is quite the homebody,” said I, “but she keeps as busy as a bee, and is very content.”

“For many years, I used to put by a packet of paper on a special shelf in back, just in case a member of the Brontë family should make a sudden, unexpected appearance. My wife used to say to me: ‘Who can those young people be writing to, that they require all that ink and all that paper? They must have a great many friends indeed!’” The bells on the shop door tinkled, and the proprietor briefly glanced in that direction with a laugh before continuing: “Well! How can I help you to-day?”

“In precisely the same manner, sir,” I replied. “We require two bottles of your best India ink, half-a-dozen new steel nibs, and three large packets of writing paper.”

“Ah! I was afraid of that. I can readily supply you with ink and nibs, ladies, but I am sorry to inform you that I am completely out of writing paper at this juncture.”

“Out of writing paper?” said Anne in dismay.