The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (46 page)

“How you did love that ugly hound, Arthur,” observed James with a laugh, “but in truth, you were equally as fond of the wild animals that roamed through our fields.” Turning to me, James added, “Once, when Arthur was about twelve or thirteen, father gave orders to have a grove of trees lopped at the side of the house. Arthur put up such a fuss, insisting that the trees afforded shelter to the squirrels, that father abandoned his plan.”

A spate of good-natured teasing followed, as Arthur’s cousins derided his devotion to the protection of large, furry rodents. I smiled in awe and wonder as I looked across the room at Arthur, who appeared more relaxed and happy than I had ever seen him. A rush of affection overwhelmed me; how little, I suddenly realised, had I known about my husband when I married him! How much better did I understand him now—now that I was able to see him interact with those he loved, and those who loved him, in the home where he was raised. He appeared to me in a new light here in his own country. He was clearly a great favourite with his family, and truly in his element in this grand place.

I realised, too, with a stab of sudden shame, how wrong papa—and I, by extension—had been about Arthur. Papa had, for so long, flatly denounced the very idea of a union with Mr. Nicholls, insisting that it would be a degradation, that he was nothing but a poor curate from a “lowly family.” How quickly papa would change his tune, could he but see the splendid home and family from which that worthy curate sprang! The Brontës, by comparison—and the Bruntys before them—were of so much humbler stock than the Bells, that it was ludicrous even to compare them.

Arthur had known all this, I realised; yet he had said nothing. Even on board ship, when he had overheard that young woman’s cruel statement that I was marrying beneath me, and my own inadequate and poorly worded reply, he had not attempted to acquaint me with the truth. Joseph had called him modest; but I saw now that it was more than that. Arthur had
hoped to be judged for himself, not based on where he came from, or what his relatives possessed.

Oh! How desperately I wished that I could be alone with my husband, to tell him how I felt: how thankful I was to God, for blessing me with the affectionate devotion of such an honourable, unboastful man; how much I truly loved him; and that I only hoped I could endeavour to deserve him.

As I stood and was about to go to him, however, I suddenly felt faint; I dropped back into my chair; it was all I could do not to topple to the floor, and I was then seized by a long, wracking cough.

“Dear me, you are not at all well, Charlotte!” cried Mrs. Bell. “I have been concerned about that cough ever since you arrived. Arthur! Do not tell me you have been dragging this poor woman all over Wales and Dublin in this condition?”

“My cold only took hold in the past day or two,” I said quickly. “Arthur has been watching over me very diligently, and insisted that I rest many times when I would have preferred to push on myself.”

“Well! You look all in,” declared Mrs. Bell, crossing to me and offering her arm. “We must get you right to bed without delay, and get some nice hot soup in you. Maureen!”

A rosy-cheeked servant appeared. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Tell cook to heat up some of that broth she made, and bring it to our guest in the green room. And tell Agnes she is wanted.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the servant as she dashed off.

Before I knew it, I had been undressed by the aforementioned Agnes, a capable-looking servant of about fifty years of age, and I was soon ensconced in a large, soft bed, in a room three times the size of our parlour at the parsonage. A turf-fire burned brightly in the wide old chimney, adding a measure of cheer to the otherwise ancient but comfortable surroundings. The rosy-cheeked servant brought me hot soup on a tray, and withdrew.

I had taken three spoonfuls when Arthur entered and crossed
to my bed uncertainly, asking in a worried tone if there was anything he might do.

I gazed up at him, my pounding heart full of all that I wished to say; but just as I opened my mouth to speak, Mrs. Bell strode in and said deliberately: “Arthur, you may leave your bride to me.” Sitting down on a tapestry-covered chair at the side of the bed, she proceeded to pour something from a medicine bottle onto a spoon. “I have tended hundreds of colds in this household, and I’ve never lost a patient yet. A sickbed is no place for a new husband. Go visit with your cousins.”

Arthur said reluctantly, “If you insist, aunt.” He bent over me, planting a gentle kiss on my forehead. “I am so sorry you are ill, Charlotte, but I promise you are in good hands. There’s no finer nurse in King’s County, and that’s a fact.”

“Arthur,” I began, reaching out to take his hand, but I was stopped by another cough.

“Hush now. Get some rest, my dear, and feel better,” said he, as he moved to the door.

I know not what medicine Mrs. Bell gave me, but after I finished my broth, I fell instantly asleep, slept straight through dinner, and remained insensible until the next morning.

I
awoke to find sunshine peeking around the edge of the curtains. The sunken pillow and tousled sheets and counterpane beside me gave evidence that my husband had indeed shared my bed, and then left it again without disturbing me. Presently, there came a gentle knock at the door.

“Come in,” said I, hoping it was Arthur; but it was Agnes, the grizzled servant who had helped me to bed the night before.

“Ah! Good. Ye’re up,” said Agnes, entering with a tray. She was short and stout, with grey hair tucked up neatly under her cap, a pleasant, lined face, and a thick local accent. “Th’ mistress bade me bring ye breakfast.” She set down the tray and flung open the curtains. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, which offered a lovely view of the lush green grounds. “I hope ye slept well, Mrs. Nicholls?”

“I did, thank you, Agnes.”

“An’ how are ye feelin’ this mornin’?”

“A bit better,” I replied, but then a deep cough overtook me.

“Well, ye’ve got a wee bit more colour i’ yer cheeks this mornin’, I see, from what ye had when ye first arrived. That’s a
good sign, it is. Me mistress allus says, there be nothin’ like a nice long sleep an’ a day o’ rest in bed t’ cure what ails ye, an’ I couldna agree more. I’ve brought ye some porridge an’ tea, an’ a bit of toast. Do ye feel up t’ eatin’ a little somethin’?”

“I will have a few bites, thank you. Agnes: have you seen my husband?”

“Our Arthur? Aye, that I have!” said Agnes in a fond tone, as she rearranged the pillows about me and helped me to sit up in bed. “He was up early, he was, an’ hoverin’ about, worried t’ death about ye. Yer husband is a good man, if I do say so myself, Mrs. Nicholls. I’ve known him since th’ first day he come here—such a sweet little lad he was—allus lookin’ for ways t’ be of help t’ others, allus wantin’ t’ be and do good. From that day t’ this, I’ve never heard him speak a complaint, nor a word against anybody, nor a word that wasn’t th’ God’s honest truth, an’ ye don’t often find that i’ a boy—or a man. I tell ye, ma’am, ye’re a most fortunate person, for that ye’ve got one o’ th’ best gentlemen i’ th’ country.”

Agnes spoke these praises with such deep affection and respect, that my heart swelled and tears sprang into my eyes. Before I could utter a comment, however, the good servant positioned my tray on my lap, and went on:

“Ah! But ye asked about Arthur’s whereabouts, didn’t ye? An’ me, prattlin’ on! Well, ma’am, he was hoverin’ about, as I said, an’ gettin’ on th’ mistress’s nerves, so she said t’ him, she says, ‘Arthur, there’s no way on God’s green earth that that dear wife of your’n is leavin’ her sickbed to-day. A full day’s rest is what she needs, an’ some proper nursin’. Ye go on,’ she says. After much grumblin’ and complainin’, she finally convinced him t’ go out for a picnic on th’ river wi’ his cousins an’ their friends.”

“Oh! He is gone? Will he be away long, do you think?”

“Well, ma’am, these young folk be so fond o’ goin’ out on th’ Shannon—every one has got a boat, or can hire or borrow one now—an’ th’ weather bein’ so fine this time of year—I shouldna think they’d be back afore supper.”

I thanked her, greatly disappointed. Agnes added more turf to the fire, and left the room.

I ate my breakfast in silence, with little appetite. Not long after the tray was removed, Mrs. Bell came in to see me. All day long, that dear lady nursed me with kindness and skill, interspersed with periods of rest so that I might recoup my strength. Later, when I awoke from my nap, she drew up a chair to my bedside with her needlework, and settled in for a chat.

“I promised Arthur I would keep an eye on you and make sure you got well. You are dear to me already, you know, because you are our Arthur’s wife; and of course, I have a soft spot in my heart for any one English. I may have been born in Dublin, but I went to school in London.”

“So that explains it: you do seem—and sound—very English to me.”

“I did not stay in your country long, truth be told, and I was a very little girl at the time; but it made a lasting impression on me. My father, you see, decided it would be an advantage for me to be educated at an English school like a true lady; so he took me there with a view to leaving me. After only three weeks, he returned to bring me home, having found life quite insupportable without me. In those three weeks, however, I learned high English, I saw London illuminated after Wellington’s victory at the Battle of Waterloo—”

“After Wellington’s victory? How thrilling!”

“And I met the Queen.”

“The Queen?”

“She called at the school to see a child in whom she was interested, and was told, ‘We have a little Irish girl here.’ Evidently I was considered something of a curiosity, and was brought downstairs to be presented. She was a little old thing—funny, is it not—her name was also Charlotte.”

I laughed in delight, and wondered wistfully: is this what it would have been like to have a mother? I could not remember the last time some one tended at my sickbed. It was a strange and wonderful feeling, as if I were a little child again.

Mrs. Bell and I talked amiably all afternoon. She asked me about my own childhood, and then told me about Arthur’s. “He and his brother fit right in with the family, and Arthur took to school like a duck takes to water: a fine student, always vying for top honours in his classes, and the same when he went to university. He was a teacher for a while, you know, and a more caring and dedicated teacher the world has never seen. I could not have been prouder than when he announced his intention of entering the clergy. Alan Nicholls is a good man, too. I love all my children, Charlotte, and I know your Arthur and Alan are not really mine; but a mother could not wish for finer sons, and I thank God every day that he gave my husband the wisdom to bring them into our lives.”

How wonderful it was, to hear Arthur so highly praised by the woman who had raised him! At the same time it filled me with shame, for it served to remind me how gravely I had misjudged and undervalued him, for so many long years.

That evening, I heard the boating party return in high spirits, proclaiming their hearty appetites. I rose and quickly dressed, determined to join them for supper. I was received with great fanfare in the dining-room, where every one pronounced me looking much improved.

“You must come with us next time, Charlotte,” insisted Mary Anna. “There is nothing so relaxing as a quiet float down the Shannon this time of year.”

“I’m glad to see you up and feeling better,” said Arthur as he sat down beside me at the table. “I felt badly about leaving you.”

I was treated to a brief glimpse of the affection to which I had earlier become accustomed; but then, as if reminding himself to veil his emotions, his smile fled and he glanced away. Oh! How maddening it was to be in a roomful of people, with no opportunity to speak! I was about to lean over and whisper in Arthur’s ear a request to withdraw privately for a brief word, when Mrs. Bell suddenly exclaimed, “My goodness! Charlotte has been here two days already, and I think we have all quite forgotten—we are in the presence of a celebrated authoress!”

To my chagrin, all and sundry pounced on this topic as if it were a subject of the greatest fascination, forcing me to relinquish any thought of leaving the table. As the first course was promptly served, Mary Anna said excitedly, “We remember, mama, but we have all tried
very hard
to remain mum on the subject—not wanting Charlotte to think we loved her only for her literary genius.”

“I adored
Jane Eyre,
” proclaimed her sister Harriette, beaming. “It is truly the best book I have ever read.”

“The three volumes each appeared separately here in Ireland,” said Mrs. Bell. “We were so electrified by the novel, we could hardly endure the suspense between one part and another! We drove to Birr especially to get each new edition at the earliest possible moment. Of course we had no idea, at the time, who the author was.”

“Do not think your admirers are limited to the women in the family,” added Alan Bell. “We’ve all read
Jane Eyre
and
Villette,
and loved them. I enjoyed
Shirley
as well, particularly your bevy of curates. I can’t remember when I’ve had such a good laugh. Is it true—as our Arthur has so proudly stated—that he was the basis for that little bit at the end, about Mr. Macarthey?”

I smiled, glancing at Arthur with affection—(willing him to
see
in my eyes, what I had not yet had the opportunity to say aloud)—but he was not looking at me. “It is true, sir. Of course, that was several years ago, before I came to know Arthur as well as I do now.”

“I think he came off rather decently,” said Joseph. “As I recall, you described him as decorous, hard-working, and charitable—if a little too easily upset by Quakers and Dissenters.”

Every one laughed. Mrs. Bell urged, “Tell us, Charlotte. We have all been dying to know: who were your models for Mr. Rochester and Monsieur Paul Emanuel?”

I noticed Arthur stiffen beside me and his face hardened. A chorus went up from the others: “Yes! Yes!” “Who were they?” “Were they based on any one real?”

Quickly, I replied: “They were an amalgam of qualities I
have either loathed or admired in men I have met—and men I have imagined—ever since I was old enough to hold a pen.”

“Well, I think Mr. Rochester quite the most romantic man ever portrayed in fiction,” admitted Mary Anna with a sigh.

A lively argument then ensued, as to whether Mr. Rochester was a deplorable character, or a good man trapped by unfortunate circumstances; and a discussion about Jane herself, whom every one seemed to think the most excellent of heroines. Eventually Mrs. Bell asked about my
nom de plume
.

“As you can imagine, we are all
most
interested in the origin of the name ‘Currer Bell.’ Such a fine surname!” (Laughter.) “Is the ‘Bell’ a coincidence?”

“Not exactly,” I replied. I acquainted them with the particulars regarding the derivation of that name, which prompted another burst of hilarity from the group.

The clock was just striking nine when Alan Nicholls suggested that we remove to the drawing-room and engage in a game of charades, an idea met with great enthusiasm by the entire party. I begged to be excused on account of my cold; I said my good-nights; and as every one filtered away in the other direction, I retired in a state of confused exhilaration and exhaustion, saddened that my husband had not, at the very least, offered to accompany me back to our room.

The drapes in our chamber were open; it was a mild summer evening, and the sun would not set for a while yet. Something drew me to the window. To my surprise, I saw Arthur exit the house and cross the great lawn, accompanied by two of the dogs; he seemed to be heading for the woods at the side of the property.

I grabbed my shawl and hurried outside, my heart pounding.

“Arthur!” I shouted, but he was too far ahead of me to hear. I pressed on, across the expanse of grass and into the trees, fruitlessly calling his name. I followed the sound of the barking dogs through the woods, until at last I came upon a small clearing, where I found Arthur throwing a pair of sticks to his happy, bounding companions.

“Arthur!” I called again, as I made my approach.

He turned and strode back to meet me, surprise mingled with his reserve. “I thought you went to bed,” said he, stopping a few feet away. “You shouldn’t be out in the night air.”

“It is a mild night, but I would have braved a snowstorm! Oh, Arthur, Arthur! I have wanted so desperately to speak to you. We have not had a moment alone in such a long time.”

“Charlotte—” he began, frowning.

“Please Arthur, just listen to me. I must speak! First: regarding
Villette
—I did write, in that book, about a man I once knew; but it is just a story.”

His eyes met mine. “Did you love him?”

“I did—a long time ago; but I do no longer, any more than you still have feelings for the girl who caught your fancy at seventeen.”

He fell silent, taking that in. The dogs came bounding back; Arthur grabbed the sticks from their mouths and hurled them into the distance. As the dogs raced off again, I went on:

“The day of our crossing, I was only trying to comfort a young lady whose father did not approve her choice of husband. I used
us
as an example of how things could turn out
right,
if she could only wait, and her beloved could prove himself. But she was spoiled, rich, and prejudiced; she turned everything on its head by criticising you, knowing nothing about you, and I—to my everlasting shame—did not rise to your defence as I should have. I see now that I was just as blind and prejudiced as she was. I had no idea that you had such a cultured family, or lived in such a fine place as this! But even if you had come from the poorest of families, Arthur, it should not have mattered. All that matters is
you
: the man you are to-day—and you are far more than my equal in every way. I am proud to be married to you, Arthur. I love you! I did not realise how much I love you until that moment on the ship, when she asked me how I felt; that is why I took so long to reply. I love you, Arthur, and I am so sorry I said and did anything to cause you pain. Can you ever forgive me?”

Tears sprang into his eyes. He stepped forward and took my hands in his. “You cannot imagine how long I have hoped and dreamt of hearing you say those words. Do you mean it, Charlotte? Do you truly love me?”

“I do, with all my heart.”

As the dogs raced up and circled at our feet, my husband pulled me into his embrace and kissed me, over and over again.

We stayed at Cuba House a week—one of the most delightful weeks of my life. We took leisurely boat rides on the Shannon and long walks into the country-side; we enjoyed delicious picnics and evenings filled with merriment, music, and dancing. During that time, I fully regained my health; at all times, I felt comfortable and completely accepted; and it was with great regret, and heart-felt promises to return the next year, that we took our leave of the Bells.