The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (3 page)

“Papa, I have brought your tea.” I set the tray on the small table beside Mr. Nicholls. “I do not wish to disturb you, so I will leave you in Mr. Nicholls’s capable hands.”

“Oh! Charlotte, do stay and pour out. How do you take your tea, Mr. Nicholls?”

“Any way it’s served to me,” replied Mr. Nicholls. Papa laughed. To me, Mr. Nicholls said abruptly, “Two lumps of sugar please, and a slice of bread with butter on it.”

My feminine soul revolted from his manner of command; had
I followed my inclinations, I would have cut the slice of bread and hurled it at his arrogant face. I restrained myself, however, and did as I was ordered. He had the decency to thank me upon receipt. I left the tea-tray and escaped back to the kitchen, where Emily, Tabby, and I spent the better part of the next hour exclaiming over the follies of narrow-minded men.

“To be called
spinster
—at age twenty-nine—by a man who considers himself too high and mighty to set foot in our kitchen!” I cried contemptuously. “And then, in the same breath, to expect me to wait on him, and butter his bread—it is too much to be borne!”

“He called
me
a spinster, too,” said Emily with a shrug, “and he has never set eyes on me. I should not think you would mind. You always said you would never marry.”

“Yes, but by
choice.
I have had two offers. I turned them down. The term
spinster
implies a decrepit old maid, unloved and unwanted by any one.”

“
Now
who sounds high an’ mighty?” interjected the widowed Tabby, clicking her tongue. “I wouldn’a think two offers
by post
are summat t’ brag abaat.”

“It shows I have standards. I will only marry where there is mutual affection, with a man who not only loves and respects me, but who respects womanhood in general.” I sank into the rocking chair by the fire, greatly vexed. “Men are always quoting Solomon’s virtuous woman, as the pattern of what ‘our sex’ ought to be. Well,
she
was a manufacturer: she made fine linen garments and belts, and sold them! She was an agriculturist and a manager: she bought estates and planted vineyards!
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Yet are women to-day allowed to be anything like her?”

“We are not,” replied Emily.

“We are allowed no employment but household work and sewing, no earthly pleasures but an unprofitable ‘visiting,’ and no hope in all our lives to come of anything better. Men expect us to be content with this dull and unprofitable lot, regularly,
uncomplainingly, day in and day out, as if we had no germs of faculties for anything else. I ask you: could men live so themselves? Would they not be very weary?”

“Men have got no conception o’ th’ hardships faced by th’ women i’ their lives,” said Tabby with a weary shake of her head.

“Even if they did have,” agreed Emily, “they would not do anything about it.”

When, at last, I shut the front door behind Mr. Nicholls with a sigh of relief, I strode into papa’s study and said, “I hope that is the last we will see of
that
gentleman.”

“On the contrary,” rejoined papa. “I have hired him.”

“You have hired him? Papa! You cannot mean it.”

“He’s the finest candidate I’ve interviewed in years. He reminds me of William Weightman.”

“How can you say so? He is nothing like William Weightman!” Mr. Weightman, papa’s very first curate, had been loved by the entire community, and by my sister Anne in particular. Sadly, he had contracted cholera while visiting the sick and died three years before. “Mr. Weightman was bonny and charming and affable. He had a wonderful sense of humour.”

“Mr. Nicholls has an excellent sense of humour.”

“I saw no evidence of it—unless perhaps at the expense of women. He is narrow-minded, rude, and arrogant, papa, and far too reserved.”

“Reserved? What, are you daft? Why, he talked my ear off. I cannot recall the last time I had such a pleasant and engaging conversation with a man.”

“He barely spoke three sentences to me.”

“Perhaps he’s uncomfortable talking to a woman on short acquaintance.”

“If so, how will he fare in the community?”

“I expect he will fare just fine. He comes highly recommended, as you know, and I can see why. He graduated last year from Trinity College. He’s a good man, with a sensible head on his shoulders. We have much in common, Charlotte. Can you
imagine it? He was born in County Antrim, in the north of Ireland, some forty-five miles from where I myself grew up. We both come from families of ten children; our fathers were both poor farmers; and we both were assisted by local clergymen to go on to university.”

“All these similarities are very well, papa, but will they make him a good curate? He is so young.”

“Young? Of course he’s young! My girl, one can’t expect to get a seasoned curate for £90 a year. He’s not even ordained yet, so we shall have to wait another month or so for him to begin his duties.”

“Another month? There is so much to be done. Can you afford to wait so long, papa?”

Papa smiled. “I trust Mr. Nicholls will be worth the wait.”

T
he last week of May, Mr. Nicholls became a tenant in the sexton’s house, a low stone building adjoining the church school, only a stone’s throw down the cobbled lane from the parsonage and its small, walled front garden. It was my duty to welcome him; and this I did, the day after his arrival, by preparing the usual basket of homemade items.

It was a fine spring morning. As I issued from the parsonage gate with my offering, I gave a friendly nod to the stone-cutter in the chipping shed, who was busily chip, chip, chipping away with his recording chisel, engraving the In Memoriams of the newly departed on one of the great slabs piled therein.

“Mr. Nicholls!” I called out, as I saw that gentleman leaving his lodgings. He turned up the lane to meet me; I presented him the basket with a smile. “My family and I wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood, sir. I do hope you are settling in well.”

“I am,” answered he with a surprised bow. “Thank you, Miss Brontë. That is very kind.”

“It is not much, sir, just a loaf of bread, a small cake, and a jar of gooseberry jam, but my sister and I made them all with
our own hands. I might add that I also hemmed the linen serviette
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myself. Since I know that you believe women are at their best in the occupations God gave them—when sewing or in the kitchen—I trust that you will find it a most suitable offering.”

To my satisfaction, his face went scarlet, and he fell silent.

“I must run,” I added. “I have much to do at home. I am deeply engrossed in reading Macaulay’s
Lays of Ancient Rome
and Chateaubriand’s
Études Historiques,
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and I am nearly finished translating Homer’s
Iliad
from the Greek. If you will excuse me.”

I did not see Mr. Nicholls again until church on Sunday, when he took his first duty as curate. As he read the prayers aloud, the congregation appeared to greatly appreciate the hearty Celtic sentiment in his manner and tone. After the service, however, he only nodded and bowed solemnly to the congregants who came up to speak to him, uttering barely a word himself.

When I complained about this to Emily after we returned to the parsonage, Emily said, “Perhaps Mr. Nicholls is simply shy. He might share our own aversion to conversing with strangers; after all, he did only just arrive. And he
does
have a very nice voice.”

“A nice voice hardly recommends a speaker,” I replied, “if he is too reserved to speak, and when he
does
speak, his views are arrogant and narrow-minded. I am certain he will not improve upon acquaintance.”

A few weeks after Mr. Nicholls’s arrival in Haworth, I received a letter from Anne, announcing that she and Branwell would be coming home for their summer holiday from Thorp Green a week earlier than expected. Anne gave no reason for this sudden change of plan; but as her letter was delivered only a few hours before their train was due to arrive, Emily and I were obliged to set off almost immediately on the four-mile walk to Keighley to meet them.

It was a warm, sunny, blue-skied afternoon in June; we had not seen our sister and brother since Christmas, and we both looked forward to their visit with great anticipation.

“Here it comes,” cried Emily, rising up from the hard wooden bench at the Keighley station, as a sharp whistle announced the approach of the four o’clock train. The locomotive roared up the tracks and pulled to a stop with a sharp squealing of brakes and a great outpouring of steam. Several passengers alighted; at last I spotted Anne, and we flew to her side.

“What a wonderful surprise,” said Emily, embracing her, “to have you home early.”

Anne was twenty-five years old, as short and slight as I, and blessed with a sweet, appealing face and a lovely, pale complexion. Her gentle spirit shone from her violet-blue eyes, and she wore her light brown hair pulled up and back, with ringlets that fell on her neck in graceful curls. As a child, Anne had been afflicted with a lisp, which she fortunately outgrew as she matured; the debility had, however, rendered her reserved and shy. At the same time, she was possessed of a calm disposition that rarely seemed to alter, buoyed up by her deep and abiding faith in a higher spirit, and her belief in the inherent goodness of mankind. How much her beliefs had recently changed with regard to this last notion, I was soon to discover.

When I studied Anne’s countenance now, she looked more pale than usual; when I hugged her, she felt thin and bird-like in my embrace. “Are you all right?” I asked in concern.

“I am fine. I love your new summer dress, Charlotte. When did you make it?”

“I finished it last week.” Although pleased with the garment, which I had constructed of pale blue silk shot through with a delicate pattern of white flowers, I was in no mood to discuss my clothing; it seemed to me that Anne had only mentioned it to distract me from the question I had posed. Before I could inquire further, however, my brother leapt down from the train car, barking orders to two porters, who brought down an old, familiar trunk onto the platform.

“Anne!” exclaimed I in surprise. “Is that your trunk?”

Anne nodded.

“Why have you brought it? Oh! Are you moving home?” cried Emily happily.

“I am. I have handed in my resignation. I will never again be returning to Thorp Green.” A look of relief crossed Anne’s countenance, but at the same time, her eyes seemed to be filled with some unspoken worry.

“I am so glad,” said Emily, embracing Anne again. “I do not know how you stood it as long as you did.”

I was astonished by this news. I knew Anne had been unhappy since the first day she began working as a governess for the Robinsons; she had been the most disappointed of us all when our plans to commence a school fell through, for that endeavour had promised her, as she expressed it, “a legitimate means of escape from Thorp Green.” Anne had never confided in us as to the specific reasons for her discontent there, other than to admit to a general dissatisfaction with the position of governess, and I had not felt it right to pry.

It may seem strange to some, that sisters so close in age, so similar in education, tastes, and sentiments, and so closely bound by affection as we three were, could still keep a part of themselves entirely private; but such was the case. In childhood, when we suffered the devastating loss of our sisters Maria and Elizabeth, we became experts at hiding our pain—and as such, our innermost thoughts and feelings—behind brave and cheerful faces. When we split up years later and went our separate directions, the tendency persisted.

Indeed, despite all that I had suffered in my second year in Brussels, I had never breathed a word of it to either of my sisters. How could I expect Anne to be any more open with me than I had been with her? Now that she was home, however, and matters had come to a crux, I simply
had
to know what was going on.

“Anne,” said I, “I applaud your courage in leaving Thorp Green, if you were unhappy; you know how much I despised the life of a governess. But to abandon such a secure position
now, with our financial future so uncertain—it is most surprising. What has happened, to force this sudden and final departure? Why did you not mention it in your letter?”

Anne blushed, and unaccountably glanced at Branwell, who was busily arranging for her trunk and their bags to be loaded onto a waiting wagon, for later delivery to our house. “It is nothing of consequence. I have had my fill of being a governess, that is all.”

Emily looked at her. “You
know
I can read your face like a book, Anne. Something is bothering you—something
new.
What is it? What are you not telling us?”

“It is nothing,” insisted Anne. “Oh! How good it is to be home! Well—nearly home anyway. How I have looked forward to this day.”

Branwell, his negotiations with the wagon driver now complete, turned to us with open arms and a wide smile. “Come, give us a hug! How are my favourite
older
sisters?”

Emily and I smiled and embraced him. “We are in the best of health, and even better spirits,” said I, “now that you are here to keep us company.”

My brother, at twenty-seven, was of middling height and handsome, with broad shoulders and a lean, athletic figure; a pair of spectacles balanced atop his Roman nose, and he wore a cap at a jaunty angle atop his bush of chin-length, carroty-red hair. Branwell was intelligent, passionate, and talented; he carried himself with an air of supreme confidence in his own male attractiveness. He also possessed an unfortunate penchant, developed over the past decade, for drink, and—to our everlasting horror and embarrassment—for the occasional dose of opium. To my relief, I saw that his eyes were now clear and sober and filled with good humour.

“Why did you never write?” I demanded, nudging him with affectionate annoyance. “I must have sent you half a dozen letters in the past six months, and you never replied.”

“I have not the time nor the patience for correspondence lately. I have been occupied nearly every minute.”

“It is good, then, that you have come home for a rest,” said I.

“Papa is so looking forward to seeing you both,” interjected Emily, taking Branwell’s arm as we left the station. “If we walk briskly, we will be home just in time for tea.”

“It is too hot to walk home now,” complained Branwell. “Let us stop at the Devonshire Arms first, and wait until it cools down before we head back.”

My sisters and I exchanged a glance. We knew full well that Branwell could never stop at an inn without taking a drink—and tea would not be his beverage of choice. One drink would invariably turn into three—or five; and the last thing we wanted was to see our brother drunk at his homecoming.

“I promised papa particularly that we would come straight home,” said I.

“It is not too hot,” added Anne quickly.

“It is a lovely day, just perfect for a walk,” insisted Emily.

Branwell sighed and rolled his eyes. “Very well. I see a man’s vote does not count in
this
company.”

We proceeded down the main street of Keighley, a prosperous town, with its active, relatively new marketplace, and the row of handsome buildings surrounding it. The town’s location was not especially appealing, lying as it did in a hollow between hills, its skies often darkened by the fumes from the many factories nearby; but we were frequent visitors none the less, as Keighley’s many shops provided certain goods and services that were not available in our tiny village.

“How is papa?” asked Anne.

“He is never peevish, never impatient, only anxious and dejected,” replied Emily.

“I worry about him so,” said Anne. “What will become of him—and us—if he goes blind? Will he lose his incumbency, do you think?”

“Papa will
not
lose his incumbency,” insisted Branwell. “He is very highly regarded in the parish—and did you not say in your last letter, Charlotte, that he has hired a new curate?”

“Yes: a Mr. Nicholls. I think him most disagreeable.”

“Why?”

“He is very reserved and insular.”

“But is he competent? Does he perform his job well?”

“It is too soon to tell. He started only a few weeks ago.”

“This Mr. Nicholls must be a good man, if papa chose him,” said Anne.

“Papa also chose James Smith,” I replied, “and he was coarse, arrogant, and mercenary.”

“Papa would never repeat
that
mistake,” said Branwell. “If this Mr. Nicholls can handle even half of the parish duties on papa’s behalf, he will be worth his weight in gold.”

We had reached the outskirts of town now, and began the long, scrambling climb up the wave-like hills past the factories, which sprouted at the roadside between rows of grey stone cottages. “How long are you home for, Branwell?” asked I. “A good month, I hope?”

“I have to go back next week.”

“Oh,” said Emily, disappointed. “Why such a short stay?”

“I am needed at Thorp Green—but I will be home again in July. I will take the rest of my holiday when the Robinsons go off on theirs, to Scarborough.”

“What is keeping you so fully occupied, that you cannot take a proper holiday?” I asked.

I saw Anne dart a silent, sidelong glance at Branwell; he unaccountably coloured, and said quickly: “Well, in addition to tutoring the young Master Robinson, I am now also giving art lessons to all the women in the household.”

“Art lessons?” said Emily. “How did that come about?”

“Rather unexpectedly. When I mentioned one day to the lady of the house that I had studied drawing and painting as a youth, and had spent a year in Bradford trying to establish myself as a portrait painter, she insisted that I paint
her
portrait. Mrs. Robinson was so delighted with the result, that she asked me to teach her to paint—and her three daughters as well.”

“What a fine outlet for your talent,” observed Emily.

“As it turns out,” Branwell went on with enthusiasm, “Mrs.
Robinson has quite an artistic bent herself. It is because she is so anxious to continue with her work in progress before they leave on holiday, that she has asked me to return within the week.”

Diary: I admit I felt a tiny stab of envy at this delineation of Branwell’s newest artistic endeavours. Forgive me for possessing these feelings, which I know to be less than gracious; I shall strive to overcome them; but how many long years did I share, in vain, my brother’s ambition to become an artist? In our youth, my sisters and I all studied with the same drawing master as Branwell; for me, it became an all-consuming passion. I spent countless hours huddled over my drawing-paper and Bristol boards with chalks, pencils, crayons, and cakes of colour, creating pictures from my imagination, or meticulously copying mezzotints and engravings of famous works that had been reproduced in books and Annuals. When I was eighteen, two of my pencil drawings were even selected for showing at a prestigious art exhibition in Leeds—but because Branwell was a boy, papa decided that he should be the one to continue study. I did not begrudge my brother the opportunity; but oh! How dearly I had wished that I, too, could have learned to paint with oils! Instead, my lessons ceased, and in time I gave up the pursuit.
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