The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (15 page)

“I am so sorry; but I do expect another shipment next week.”

“This is distressing indeed,” said I, knowing that there was no other outlet within many miles where we might obtain the necessary article. “We shall simply have to find a way to survive without it a little longer. I suppose we might as well purchase the ink and nibs, and return for the paper when it comes in.”

“Very well.” As the shopkeeper gathered the aforementioned items and wrote up a bill of sale, a deep, familiar voice with an Irish lilt spoke from behind me:

“Miss Brontë, Miss Anne?”

I turned and, to my surprise, encountered Mr. Nicholls standing behind us.

“How nice to see you, Mr. Nicholls,” said Anne, as we curtseyed to meet his bow.

“What brings you to Keighley, sir?” I asked.

“Church business, on behalf of your father. I just finished meeting with the vicar of Keighley. I saw you two ladies entering this establishment, and thought I might come in and say hello.”

“I am glad you did, sir,” said I politely.

“I do not mean to intrude,” said Mr. Nicholls, “but I could not help overhearing your predicament. Three packets is a great deal of writing paper. May I ask what is it for?”

My cheeks grew warm; my eyes flew to Anne’s; she appeared equally uncomfortable. “It is a private matter, Mr. Nicholls,” said I, “about which I have been vowed to secrecy. I know you would not wish me to break my word by imparting even the merest hint about it to you.”

“I see. Forgive me, Miss Brontë. I will inquire no further.”

Anne and I completed our transaction and left the shop. As Mr. Nicholls accompanied us out to the street, he said, “Do you have further business in Keighley?”

“We are walking home directly, sir,” said I.

“May I have the honour of accompanying you?”

I could think of no graceful manner in which to refuse his offer; before I could reply, however, the decision was removed from my power by the events which immediately followed.

Anne touched me on the arm and said, “Is not that Miss Malone?”

Following her gaze, I caught sight of two young women crossing the street towards us, arm-in-arm. The first, I recognised: it was Sylvia Malone, the young woman who had been so keen in her praise of Mr. Nicholls at the bell-ringing dinner a few nights before. Her companion was a pleasant-faced, auburn-haired girl in her early twenties, who resembled Sylvia both in form and feature, although she quite outshone her in terms of apparel. Whereas Sylvia was dressed in a drab merino pelisse and cottage bonnet, the other young lady wore a well-made wool cloak and a lovely silk frock, with a matching ribbon in her stylish bonnet.

“Miss Brontë! Miss Anne!” cried Sylvia, hurrying towards us with her companion on her arm. Demurely, she added: “Hello, Mr. Nicholls.”

As the young ladies stopped before us, the newcomer and Mr. Nicholls both started in shocked recognition, coloured, and averted their gazes.

“May I present my cousin, Miss Bridget Malone, who is visiting from Dublin for a few weeks,” said Sylvia with a smile, unaware of that young lady’s discomfort, or the fact (obvious to me) that she was previously acquainted, and clearly in no happy manner, with the gentleman in our presence. “Bridget: this is Charlotte and Anne Brontë, the daughters of our parson, and here is our own curate of Haworth, Mr. Nicholls.”

We all exchanged greetings, and curtseyed or bowed. Bridget alone remained mute.

“What a surprise to find you all here in Keighley!” exclaimed Sylvia.

“Indeed, it is a most unexpected occurrence,” murmured Mr. Nicholls, adding abruptly: “I am sorry to say, I must take my leave. I am expected back in Haworth shortly. Good day to you, ladies. Have a pleasant afternoon.” Tipping his hat, he turned and moved off up the street.

“He was certainly in a great hurry,” said Sylvia with a frown,
watching Mr. Nicholls’s retreating figure. “I was hoping for a chance to speak to him. He is a fine-looking man, is he not? He is so tall and strongly built, and has such lovely eyes.”

“His eyes may be fine,” declared Bridget with a hard edge to her strong Irish voice, “but don’t let them fool you. That man has a heart of granite.”

“Why do you say that, Bridget?” asked Sylvia in surprise.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Nicholls?” I inquired.

“I am,” replied Bridget. “We met in Dublin, a few years back. He—oh! It is a long story.” Bridget’s face suddenly crumpled, and she burst into tears.

“Bridget! Good God!” cried Sylvia in alarm. “I had no idea you knew him. You must tell me everything, and all.” To us, she added, “There’s the Devonshire Arms, just up the road. Will you join us for a beer or a cup of tea?”

Anne and I exchanged a look; I saw from her expression that she was as keenly interested in this turn of events as I. “We would be delighted to join you for tea,” said I; and to the Devonshire Arms we quickly adjourned.

T
he Devonshire Arms was a busy coaching inn with an old-fashioned charm, which we had frequented on many occasions. When we were comfortably situated at a table near the fire, with a steaming pot of tea and a plate of scones and jam, Miss Malone told us her story.

“I was born in Dublin,” said Bridget in her strong Irish brogue, as she sipped her tea. “I have lived there all my life. My father is a businessman. He owns several shops, and we live in a very nice house.”

“I have never seen it,” put in Sylvia, “but my father has, and he says it is very nice indeed.”

“From the day I turned sixteen,” Bridget went on, “I had many suitors, all very wealthy and eligible men that my mam and da were keen on me to marry, but I said no, I won’t marry for money. I’ll wait to find my One True Love. Then one day, my brother brought a young man to the house: your very own Arthur Bell Nicholls. He and my brother were school-mates, you see, at Trinity College. For nigh on to six months, Mr. Nicholls came to the house nearly every week-end. In my eyes, the moon rose and set on that gentleman, and he fell equally in
love with me; but we had to keep our love a secret, for Mr. Nicholls, you know, comes from a very poor family—he’s one of ten children, I think.”

“I have heard that,” I said.

Bridget paused to spread a dab of butter and jam on a scone, and took a dainty bite. “Well, at length, Mr. Nicholls proposed. He said he didn’t have a penny, and it must be a long engagement, for he still had years of college to finish before he could be graduated and ordained; but would I wait for him? I said yes, I would! I thought I’d like to die of happiness! But when Mr. Nicholls went to my father for permission, my da laughed him out of the room. He said I was free to marry whomsoever I liked, but he wouldn’t give a farthing for a dowry to a daughter who married the son of a poor farmer, who was destined to be no more than a poor curate.”

“How cold and unfeeling of him!” I cried, my heart going out to her.

“What did you do?” asked Anne.

“Surely, if you loved each other,” said Sylvia, “you could have married, even without your father’s money or permission.”

“I told Mr. Nicholls so,” said Bridget. “I was perfectly ready to give up everything and all, and wait for him. But the next day, he didn’t come to call; nor the next week; and I never heard from him again.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, my hand jerking with such dismay that I spilled half the contents of my tea-cup into my saucer. “To abandon you like that—to withdraw his affection so coldly, without a word—it is inexcusable.”

“It liked to break my heart,” said Bridget, as tears started in her eyes. “I was so ashamed to think I could have loved him. It wasn’t until years later that my brother told me Mr. Nicholls had gone to England. He is the worst kind of degenerate, to my way of thinking, for he was clearly only after me for my money.”

A volley of similar censures issued from Sylvia’s lips, while Anne sat in silent consternation. We soon finished our tea and left the establishment, continuing our conversation as we walked
back to Haworth. For the first three miles, Sylvia confided in us as to her own previous and numerous disappointments of the heart; for the last mile, Bridget told us how she had been coping in the years since Mr. Nicholls’s betrayal, and about the many suitors who had tried in vain to win her hand.

“I think my heart is broken,” declared Bridget with a sigh. “I try to like a man, but no matter how kind and decent he may appear, I’m too full of fear. I now see only treachery and deceit.”

When we reached the Malones’ beer house at the edge of Haworth village, Anne and I hugged our companions good-bye, and I invited them to stop by the parsonage any afternoon for tea. Bridget graciously declined, insisting that she would stay close to home, as she did not want to take a chance, during her visit, of running into
that gentleman
again.

“Oh!” said I, as Anne and I began the steep climb up Main Street. “I disliked Mr. Nicholls before, but my regard for him has plummeted to new depths.”

“I would not be so quick to judge Mr. Nicholls,” replied Anne. “There may be some other explanation for all this—some misunderstanding that exists between him and Miss Malone.”

“What kind of misunderstanding?”

“I do not know—but I find it hard to believe that Mr. Nicholls would knowingly behave in such a cold and callous manner. He is, at heart, a good man.”

“I fail to see the germs of goodness in Mr. Nicholls that you imagine he possesses, Anne. If Mr. Nicholls saw a young woman and a common hound lying bleeding in the street, I believe he would go first to the aid of the dog, before he would even think to help the human being. For
my
part, I would be happy if I never set eyes on him again.”

Two nights later, Emily, Anne, and I were assembled in the dining-room behind a closed door, with our entire collection of assorted poetry spread out on the table before us, when the door-bell rang. Knowing that Martha would answer, I paid little attention.

“I think your best poem is
Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee,
” I told Emily, quoting that piece’s first line. “It breaks my heart to think the speaker has had to live fifteen years without his beloved. But it still needs a title.”

“I have decided to call it ‘Remembrance,’” replied Emily. “I have titles for all of them, and I have finished my editing, but I cannot progress further without more paper.”

A sudden knock sounded at the door to our apartment. I opened it a crack and peeked into the passage, where Martha stood waiting. “Yes?”

“Mr. Nicholls is here, ma’am.” (Martha had, for many years now, called me
ma’am
instead of
miss
; I supposed it was a sign of respect, as I was the eldest daughter in the house.)

“Please show Mr. Nicholls into papa’s study,” I replied abruptly. I was about to shut the door, when Martha interjected:

“He says he’s here t’ see
ye,
ma’am.”

“To see me? Well, I have no wish to see him. Tell him I am not at home.”

“I already bade him enter, ma’am,” whispered Martha with quiet urgency, her eyes darting towards the vestibule. “I said ye be here. He claims he has summat for ye.”

“What could he have to give me?”

“I dunnut, but he insists he must give it ye hisself. He’s waiting just there, in th’ hall.”

“Oh—all right. Tell him to wait. I will be out in a moment.” I shut the door and took a deep breath, steeling myself for the encounter, determined to remain composed.

“Who is it?” asked Anne, looking up from her work at the dining-table.

“Mr. Nicholls. Apparently he has brought me something.”

“How nice,” said Anne.

“You think every one and everything in the world is
nice,
” observed Emily. To me, she added, “Must we put everything away?”

“No. I will get rid of him.”

I issued forth into the hall, firmly shutting the door behind
me. Mr. Nicholls stood in the entry way holding a parcel, wrapped and tied with string, that was about the size and shape of a rather large book. He met my gaze as I marched up and stopped before him.

“Miss Brontë. I sensed your distress the other day, when the stationer at Keighley was out of paper. I went into Bradford yesterday and took the liberty of securing some. I hope you and your sisters can make some use of it.” He offered me the package.

I gave a startled gasp. So that was the mysterious “something” in question: writing paper! The paper that we so dearly needed! For a brief, confused instant, my resolve left me. Mr. Nicholls was offering me a gift—a gift which he had clearly gone to great effort to procure, for Bradford was twelve miles away. Perhaps this was some kind of peace offering, for the comment he had made all those months ago? But then I thought: no!
No!
This man had once cruelly insulted me behind my back, and made no apology. Far worse, some years ago, he had mistreated an innocent young Irish lass in the most callous and heartless manner. I wanted no part of any peace offering from him.

“I am sorry, but I cannot accept it.”

Mr. Nicholls’s complexion paled; his eyes were all confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“I cannot accept the paper.”

“But why?”

“I think you know why.”

“Mr. Nicholls!” came Anne’s voice from behind, as she hurried up the passage and stopped beside me. “Do my ears deceive me? Does that package contain writing paper?”

“It does,” said he, his face now bright red.

“Wherever did you find it, sir?”

“In Bradford.”

“How kind of you to think of us, sir. I apologise for my sister; she is too proud, and can never bring herself to accept help from any one. Emily and I will be honoured to accept the paper on her behalf, and of course we will pay you for it.”

“It is a gift,” said Mr. Nicholls, still looking mortified, as he gave the parcel into Anne’s keeping.

“Thank you sir,” said Anne, “for your thoughtfulness and generosity. We are very grateful.”

Mr. Nicholls darted a brief, uncertain look at me—and, finding no welcome there—bowed and quickly departed.

“Whatever were you thinking?” cried Anne, when he had gone. “I suspect he went all the way to Bradford entirely on our behalf, and we need this paper desperately!”

“To accept it would make me beholden to him; and the very notion of being in debt to Mr. Nicholls in any way, is entirely despicable to me.”

“Oh! You are impossible!” Anne strode back into the dining-room with the package, which was met with great enthusiasm by Emily.

I staunchly refused to use a single sheet of Mr. Nicholls’s paper, waiting until a new shipment arrived at our local stationer’s before copying out my own poems, and writing letters of inquiry to prospective publishers.

Branwell made one rallying effort that autumn to fix himself; an effort which, as it turned out, had valuable and far-reaching consequences which he could not have foreseen. One stormy afternoon in late November, as I sat by the dining-room fire sewing a garment for the poor, Branwell strode in and made an unexpected announcement.

“You will be happy to hear I have begun a new project,” he announced, as he pitched himself down onto the sofa.

“Have you? What project is that?”

“I am writing a novel.”

“A novel?” I replied dubiously.

“Yes, and this novel is going to be different from and better than anything I have written before. This one, I mean for the world to see. I intend to be published.”

“Published?” Now I looked up from my sewing with interest.

Branwell’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “I once be
lieved that getting a book published—a real, full-length novel—was an unattainable goal, for such as I; that my only hope of ever seeing my work in print rested on the poems I placed in the newspapers and journals. But now, I know differently. I have done some research. It seems that in the present state of the publishing and reading world, a novel is the most saleable article.”

“Is it, indeed?”

“Yes! Were I to write a great scholarly work, which would take years and years and years, and require the utmost stretch of a brilliant man’s intellect, I might be lucky to be offered ten pounds for it. But for a novel—three light volumes whose composition would require the mere smoking of a cigar and the humming of a tune—for a
novel,
two hundred pounds could be offered, and just as easily refused!”

My heart began to beat faster. “Are novels really so popular, and so sought after?”

“They are. Would you like to read what I have written so far?”

I said I would. Branwell darted from the room and quickly returned, bringing me the first forty or so pages of his novel in progress, a work entitled
And The Weary Are at Rest.
I immediately perused it. It was the story of a virtuous young woman named Maria Thurston, a neglected wife who longs for love, and is driven, despite herself, into the arms of her lover, Alexander Percy, the Earl of Northangerland.

“It is compelling and dramatic,” I told Branwell, when I returned the manuscript that evening. “I always liked that old Angrian tale you wrote ages ago. I see that you have revised it to be about you and Mrs. Robinson, with a slightly different outcome.”

His countenance reddened as he seized the pages from me. “So what if I have?”

“I meant it as a compliment. The story will be all the better now, I think, for a little life experience. Did not Chateaubriand say that ‘great writers are only telling their
own
stories in their
works’—that ‘one only truly describes one’s own heart by attributing it to another’?”

Branwell nodded. “He said: ‘the greater part of genius is composed of memories.’”

“Exactly. I did not understand that when we wrote as children; neither did you. We wrote wherever our fancies took us. I am wiser now. I have come to believe, in any work of art—be it poem, prose, painting, or sculpture—it is always best to draw off of real life.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

“If you can finish it, Branwell—if you can translate your heartache into your fiction, I believe you can write something truly worthy of publication.”

It was a hope that was never to materialise. Although Branwell did manage to have two more poems published in the
Halifax Guardian,
he abandoned his book after the first volume.

His attempt, however, along with his assertions, lit a fire under me.

For the past two months, all my spare time had been occupied by the poetry book my sisters and I were compiling, a work which was now complete and ready for submission, should I find any interest from a publisher. However, as I lay wide-awake in bed the night after my conversation with Branwell, I was overcome by a sudden, startling realisation that set all my nerves tingling. The poetry book had been just an exercise: a means to an end. It was an attempt to be published, in any way I could. But what I
really
wanted—what I
had
wanted, more than anything in the world, for as long as I could remember—was not merely to be published; it was to be a published
author.