The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (42 page)

“Oh!” I cried, delighted, as I wrapped my arms around her. “The honour is
mine.
Thank you so much, my dear, dear friend.”

Mr. Nicholls kissed me good-bye at the front door, expressing his concern about my cold. I assured him that I felt well, on the
whole. The household retired for the night. Miss Wooler slept in the room that had once been Branwell’s; Ellen, as always, shared my chamber.

“Do you realise,” said Ellen, as we lay back upon our pillows, “that this is the last time we shall ever share a bed together?”

“Yes,” I replied, a little sadly.

“I shall never forget the first time I saw you all those years ago, hovering in tears by the schoolroom window at Roe Head.”

“You gave me comfort and friendship when I had none. I can never thank you enough for that, Nell.”

Ellen turned and gazed at me fondly. “We were good for each other, I think.”

“We still are.”

Sudden tears welled in her eyes. “I cannot believe it is all over—that you are truly getting married to-morrow.”

“Do not look so sad, Nell. I am not going anywhere. I shall be a man’s wife, yes; but I shall still live here, in this very same house, just as always.”

“With this marriage, Charlotte, your life will alter in ways that you and I cannot even begin to imagine.”

“That may be true; but whatever happens, I promise I will always make time for you in my life. You are my dearest and closest friend, Nell, and I cannot think how I would get on without you.”

“I feel the same, my dearest Charlotte.” Ellen wiped away her tears and closed her eyes. After a small silence, in which I thought she might have fallen asleep, she said in a quiet voice, “Are you very afraid?”

“Afraid? Of what?”

“Of—” In the dim light of late evening, I could discern the blush which spread across her cheeks. “Of your wedding night.”

It was my turn to blush. Here was a subject we had not broached in many years; and at the mention of it, my heart began to pound. “I am not afraid,” I replied truthfully, “but I
suppose I am very—well, curious—and perhaps a little apprehensive. I do so want to please my husband, or at the very least, not to disappoint.”

“Has any one advised you about the—the proceedings?”

“No! Whom should I apply to for advice? I have no married friends with whom I could speak on such a topic, unless you count Tabby, who is so old and has been widowed so long, I daresay she has forgotten, and Mrs. Gaskell—but somehow it never seemed appropriate to ask her.”

“I can see how it would not.”

“I admit, I know very little about what to expect, or what will be expected of me. It is a bit mortifying to think that, at age thirty-eight, I know less about this matter than some girls know at eighteen.”

“Mama says it is a rite of passage that every married woman must experience for herself. My married sisters
still
tell me nothing.”

“It does seem unfair that information on this subject is not more readily available—but I am not a complete ignoramus. I am acquainted with the physiology of the male anatomy, and I
have
read a great many novels.”

“Novels are always so enigmatic on the subject. I once read about a woman being
ravished.
What does that mean, exactly?”

“To be violated; to be seized and carried away by force.”

“Oh!” cried Ellen in dismay.

“Yet it also can mean something very different: to be overwhelmed by emotion; to be enraptured.”

“Well,
that
could be very nice.”

“Indeed it could.”

“Do you think,” said Ellen with a giggle, “that Mr. Nicholls will ravish you?”

“I do not know. I hope so.” At this, we were both overcome by school-girlish laughter for a full minute.

When we had recovered our composure, Ellen said: “Oh! I just remembered something else my mother once told me. She
said: a wife must trust to her husband, and follow his lead; and above all, she must not be shy with him.”

“Shy?” Our eyes met, followed by another outburst of confused laughter. “Well, since that is the only piece of advice I have received on the matter, I will take it to heart.”

D
iary, I married him.

The 29th of June, 1854, began as quietly as any other Yorkshire morning. The birds did not sing any louder than usual; the sun did not rise with a glorious burst; the sky at dawn was dim and grey, shrouding the country-side in a muted haze; there was, in short, nothing to set it apart from any other misty morning in early summer. Except that it was
very
different: it was my wedding day.

I had spent a restless night, too filled with nervous apprehension to sleep. The moment the sun crept over the horizon, I rose, and Ellen soon followed. I attempted to help arrange Ellen’s hair, but my hands so trembled that she seized the brush from my grasp and finished the job herself. She then sat me down and insisted on plaiting up my tresses in a fashion she deemed “appropriate to the occasion.” So long was she in accomplishing her task, that I grew impatient; at last she was satisfied. Ellen donned the new dress she had commissioned for the event: a pretty brown frock with patterned stripes and fringe around the shoulders and bodice.

My wedding dress suited me: it was plainly fashioned of
white muslin with delicate green embroidery. My white wedding bonnet—the dressmaker’s design—was a more elaborate confection than I had anticipated, but very sweet: it was trimmed all over with white lace and white flowerets, and adorned with cascading ribbons and a pale band of small white flowers and green ivy leaves.

When I was thus attired in gown, bonnet, and gloves, Ellen let out a gasp. “Charlotte! You are so lovely. Look at yourself in the mirror. You have not yet taken a single peep!”

I moved to the looking-glass. At first, all my attention was drawn to my nose, and to the pronounced shade of pink that had overtaken it as a result of my slight cold. When my view widened, however, I found myself astonished. The figure reflected therein—adorned from head to toe in snowy white, brown hair elegantly swept up beneath a beribboned cap of flowers and lace—was so unlike my usual self, that it seemed to me the image of a stranger.

There was something remarkable, I thought as I gazed in wonder, in the traditional garb of a bride; it could turn even the plainest woman into something of a beauty.

“I am ready,” I announced softly, “for my veil.”

At five minutes to eight, Ellen and I emerged from my bedroom, with my mantle of transparent, lace-edged tulle draped over my head and face. Papa was standing just adjacent, in the doorway to his bedroom; his eyes widened, as if both startled and pleased by what he saw.

“God be with you, child.”

“Thank you, papa.”

Tabby and Miss Wooler were waiting below, all smiles.

“Ah! Lord, child!” cried Tabby, wiping away tears from her wrinkled cheeks. “Ye be a sight for sore eyes.”

Miss Wooler, voluminously attired in pale grey silk, her equally pale ringlets splendidly arranged beneath a tasteful hat, proclaimed me “very lovely indeed.” Martha joined us in the hallway with a bashful smile and handed me a bouquet of
white flowers, all tied up with white ribbons, whispering, “For ye, ma’am. I know ye said not t’ go t’ ony fuss, but I couldn’a help mysel’. They be from my mum’s garden, ma’am. Oh! Don’t ye look jist like a snowdrop!”

So unaccustomed was I to such praise, that I could not help but blush. “Thank you, Martha.”

“I’m t’ tell ye ’at Mr. Nicholls stopped by, jist a few minutes past. Th’ parson an’ clerk have arrived, an’ all be ready an’ waitin’ at th’ church, whenever ye be ready.”

Martha and Tabby had insisted on staying behind, to complete the preparations for the wedding breakfast. My attendants and I issued out the door, my mind in such a whirl of excited apprehension, that I scarcely knew whether the morning was warm or cold, or if the sky had yet turned from grey to blue. I crossed the lawn in a sort of daze; I had passed this way thousands of times before, but suddenly everything felt strange and unfamiliar. Was this really me, tensely gripping this bouquet of white flowers, on my way to church to become a bride?

Miss Wooler opened the garden gate. As I slipped through into the churchyard, past the first row of gravestones, a sudden, unaccountable chill came over me. I faltered for an instant and took a little breath, all the blood seemingly draining from my face.

“Charlotte? Are you all right?” asked Miss Wooler in concern.

I glanced up at the grey old house of God rising tall and serene before me, and saw a rook circling around the steeple. The sight of the wild creature winging through the sky with such free abandon seemed to me a good omen, and filled me with a new-found sense of calm. I took a deep breath and smiled. “I am fine.”

At that moment Mr. Nicholls exited the church, very handsomely dressed in his best black suit. When he caught sight of me across the yard, he froze; the expression that overtook his visage was one of such pure delight and admiration that it made my heart sing. I hurried to his side.

He took my gloved hand in his; I felt his own hand trembling. “You look—you
are
—beautiful, Charlotte.”

My heart began to pound; I wanted to tell him how wonderful he looked, but I was too choked up to speak; I could only return his smile as, hand in hand, we rushed inside the temple together.

As I had hoped, the church was nearly empty, the sole occupants of the seats in front being Mr. and Mrs. Grant. Reverend Sowden was waiting at the altar in his white surplice. Three other men stood nearby: the sexton, John Brown; a young pupil named John Robinson (whom, Arthur whispered, he had prevailed upon at the last moment to fetch the old parish clerk); and the clerk himself, Joseph Redman. The only person of importance not present was my father, I noted with regret; but I had little time to consider the matter, for Arthur squeezed my hand and said, in a low voice, “Are you ready?”

I nodded.

“Then here we go.” He left my side and held out his arm to Ellen; she took it; he promptly escorted her down the aisle. I waited, my heart thudding so loudly in my ears that I felt certain Miss Wooler must be able to hear it as she moved into position beside me; we then traversed the length of the church together. As we approached the altar, Arthur gazed at me with a fixed and beaming countenance.

Mr. Sowden asked, “Who gives this bride away?”—Miss Wooler answered, “I do”—I took Arthur’s arm, and we moved into position at the communion rails.

The ceremony, by design, was brief. Reverend Sowden opened with the customary explanation of the intent of matrimony; I tried to listen, but in my excitement, my mind would not focus. The whole proceeding was unreal to me, as if I were wrapped in the middle of a dream. It seemed I had barely drawn three breaths when Mr. Sowden began uttering that all-too-familiar speech:

“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful Day of Judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be
disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it…”

Upon hearing these words, I could not help but think of my own Jane Eyre, and the dire circumstances which had succeeded that proclamation at her wedding to Mr. Rochester. A side glance at Mr. Nicholls—whose twinkling eyes caught mine—insinuated that he was possessed by the same thought, and we shared a silent smile.

Thankfully, there was no meddling Mr. Mason present on that occasion to declare an impediment. All at once, I was required to slip off my glove and receive the thin gold wedding band which Mr. Nicholls slipped on my finger, to join my ring of pearls; then Mr. Sowden decried, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Mr. Nicholls lifted back my veil, bent his head to mine and gently placed a kiss upon my lips. I heard our friends burst into applause. My new husband grabbed my hand and rushed me out into the vestry, where we signed the church register (how strange to inscribe my name as Charlotte Nicholls!), witnessed by Ellen and Miss Wooler. Mr. Grant then opened the door and remarked, with a little laugh: “Prepare yourself: it seems your secret is out.”

Indeed, as our little party issued into Church Lane, we encountered a sizeable gathering of old and humble friends and neighbours lining the passageway, who smiled, bowed, and curtseyed as we swept past. Ellen hurried ahead, mysteriously insisting that she had some service to perform. Arthur heartily shook hands with several of the well-wishers; I nodded and smiled, still enwrapped in a daze of disbelief. After all the worrying and thinking and planning—add one white dress and a few words spoken by a parson in the church—and I was married!

Papa met us at the front door of the parsonage, dressed in his Sunday best. He was so sufficiently recovered in health and spirits that he smiled as he shook every one’s hands, and warmly
ushered us into the dining-room for the well-laid wedding breakfast: a delicious assortment of fresh breads and cakes, cheeses, eggs, cold ham, butter, summer fruit, and a variety of jams. To my surprise, the mantelpiece was also decorated with a beautiful bouquet, and brightly-coloured flowers were scattered across the table.

“Thank you, Martha,” I said. “Everything looks wonderful, and the flowers are beautiful.”

“It were Miss Nussey who decorated th’ table jist a few minutes past,” replied Martha confidentially, “but I picked them flowers mysel’. I were up afore dawn, I was, an’ raided every garden i’ th’ village.”

Martha served the tea and coffee as we all took seats at the table. Papa became the life and soul of the party, telling such a profusion of jokes concerning the state of matrimony, that the group was kept laughing into stitches for the better part of an hour.

When we had finished our repast, Mr. Grant rose and said, “I’d like to propose a toast to my good friend Arthur and his new bride.” Every one lifted their glasses. “We all know how long you have been hoping for and anticipating this day, Arthur. You deserve only the best—and the best is what you have found in Charlotte Brontë—or should I say: Charlotte Nicholls. This woman was not an easy catch—but now you have got her, I hope you’ll be sensible enough not to ever let her go.”

Laughter rippled through the room; then Mr. Grant continued: “Arthur is very proud of his homeland across the sea, and in his honour, I have learned an Irish blessing for the occasion, which I would now like to share. Arthur and Charlotte: May you enjoy a long life together, good health, and prosperity; and in all your comings and goings, may you ever have a kindly greeting from them you meet along the road.”

“Hear, hear!” cried all assembled.

Ellen stood, and after wishing us much happiness, said: “I wish to offer an Irish toast of my own: May you both learn to love and appreciate each other for your strengths, and to forgive
your weaknesses; and may you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.”

Applause followed. Miss Wooler then stood and raised her glass. “To continue the theme, in the words of the Irish: May the joys of to-day be those of to-morrow; and may your anger set with the sun and not rise with it again.”

Mr. Sowden was next: “May your troubles be less, and your blessings be more, and nothing but happiness come through your door.”

I thought the toasting had surely reached its conclusion, when papa rose to his feet with a twinkle in his eyes and said: “When it comes to Irish blessings, I can outdo you grand people any day of the week. I will, however, restrict myself to my favourite passage only: To my dearest daughter and her bridegroom, my friend and esteemed colleague, Arthur Bell Nicholls, I would like to say:

A hearty cheer erupted amidst much clapping of hands. Arthur now stood. “Thank you one and all for your lovely sentiments, which do my countrymen proud.” His eyes beamed with affection as he looked down at me, and said with raised glass, “To my own dear Charlotte: you have made me the happiest man on earth. I vow to devote my life to making you as happy as you have made me to-day.”

I stood and admitted how glad I was to be his wife, and how blessed we were to have such good and devoted friends. After the drinking and applause that followed, Arthur announced
that we were obliged to be on our way, as we had a train to catch. Ellen and I hurried upstairs, where she helped me change into my new going-away dress: a long-sleeved misty mauve silk with a thin stripe, which had been simply tailored with a tucked bodice and full skirt according to my own design.

Our trunks were then loaded into the waiting cab; amidst a great clamour of hugs and kisses and good wishes, we said good-bye to our wedding guests and climbed aboard; and the vehicle rushed us off towards Keighley station.

As I settled back into our seat in the carriage en route to Keighley, my new husband’s hand sought and found mine. When I looked up at him, I saw tears in his eyes.

“Arthur, what is it? What is wrong?”

His breath caught in his throat; he wiped his eyes and said, after a struggle, “Nothing. I am only happy: happy because you are sitting here beside me; happy because God has seen fit to answer my prayers; happy because we are, at long last, united as man and wife.” He squeezed my hand affectionately, his eyes brimming with emotion. “I love you.”

I wanted to respond in kind—to say those same three words that I knew he so wanted to hear—but somehow the words would not yet come. “Arthur,” I began, but he put a finger to my lips.

“Hush. I know very well how things stand between us, Charlotte; but I know, too, that this is only the first day of the rest of our lives. It is enough that you are here.”

We travelled all day by train to Wales, a location entirely new to me. Arthur, with boyish excitement, pointed out from the train window many interesting landmarks along the route, which he had traversed so many times before on his way to and from Ireland. The day was chiefly fair, with some gleams of sunshine; by the time we arrived in Conway, however, the weather had turned wet and wild. We were soon sheltered at a comfortable inn, where—fearing that Ellen might be feeling a little bereft on
the occasion—I immediately scribbled a brief note to apprise her of our safe arrival.