The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (9 page)

“My dearest Charlotte!”

“Nell! How good it is to see you.”

“I prayed all morning that nothing would prevent your coming. How was your journey?”

“Uneventful—although the passing country-side was so magnificent, I was filled with longing to leap from the train and then the carriage, and to dash out into the undulating green meadows on foot.”

“I am relieved that you restrained yourself; but Derbyshire
is
lovely country, is it not?” Ellen wore a becoming dress of yellow silk, modestly cut in the latest fashion; a matching ribbon adorned her bonnet, beneath which her soft brown hair was tidily arranged.

“I have missed you so, Nell, and longed for some excellent
gossip,” I cried, as we climbed into the coach Ellen had hired, and I clasped her hands in mine.

“As have I. What news is there from Haworth? How is Anne?”

“Fine, I think, and happy to be home.”

“What do you think of your new curate?”

“Oh! Let us not spoil the day by talking of Mr. Nicholls.”

“Why? You do not like him?”

“I do not, and never shall. I wish papa had never hired him.”

“What has Mr. Nicholls done, to earn such a violent dislike?”

I knew, were I to inform Ellen about the unflattering remark Mr. Nicholls had made about me, I would be met with the same reprimand regarding the importance of inner versus outer beauty which my sisters had intoned. Being in no mood for this lecture, I simply said, “Mr. Nicholls is a Puseyite, and too narrow-minded for my taste. But enough about him! Tell me about you, Nell. I wish to know everything that has happened since you got here!”

C
hattering like magpies, we drove the few miles to Ellen’s brother’s new home. Hathersage turned out to be a tiny village surrounded by farms and inhabited by workers in local needle factories. Like Haworth, it consisted of a cluster of stone cottages that lined a steep road rising up to the church and vicarage: a pleasant, two-storeyed stone house not unlike our own, similarly situated atop an eminence.

“Please excuse the dust and disarray,” said Ellen, as she showed me through the house, which was undergoing a major extension, with the addition of a large, bay-windowed drawing-room and a new bedroom above. “Every day there has been some new complication, the plasterers have a great deal more work to do, and the new furniture has yet to arrive; but Henry says that he and his wife will come in four weeks’ time, whether or not we are ready for them.”

“It all looks very grand. I am certain the newly-weds will be delighted with the place, and grateful to you for taking on this burden.”

After tea, Ellen suggested a rest, but I admitted that after a
long day of sitting, I was anxious to explore the beauties of the region. We donned our bonnets and gloves once more and left forthwith to take a stroll in the cool of early evening. Leaving the house, we ambled down a path which led through a wide, green field; I caught my breath in wonder and delight at the surrounding landscape, which was far more magnificent than that of Haworth, comprised of poetically undulating low hills and valleys covered with pasture and woodland, which formed a dramatic contrast to the higher, distant slopes of the moors.

“How beautiful it is here!” I cried. “I am glad Henry gave up the idea of being a missionary. He would never have lasted two months in the Indian climate. He has done well for himself, in choosing this location.”

“He has. I only hope he has done as well with his choice of bride.”

“From your letters, this Miss Prescott—that is,
Mrs. Nussey
—” (for they had been married some weeks past) “sounds like a fine woman. She must be, if she fitted Henry’s criteria, for we know he was very exacting in his search for a wife.”

Ellen looked at me, perceived that I was teasing, and we both laughed. In fact, Henry—a dull, earnest young man—had made offers to a great many women over the past six years, and each time had been summarily rejected; I was the first person he had approached.

“You know,” said Ellen with sudden wistfulness, “I often think about what might have been, had you accepted Henry’s proposal all those years ago. We would be sisters now. I would see you on a regular basis; we might have even shared a house together.”

“You would have soon tired of me, Nell, had we lived in such close proximity.”

“I could never tire of you.”

“Nor I of you,” I declared truthfully, as I squeezed Ellen’s hand, “but Henry and I did not suit. I barely knew him. I could not love him. And to propose by post! His letter simply informed
me, without a word of flattery or cant, that the rectory where he resided was too large for one person, and would I consider looking after it as his wife?
¹⁷
This is not, you must admit, the manner in which a woman dreams of receiving an offer of marriage. To think it has happened to me twice!”

“That is right! Did you not once receive an offer from a total stranger?”

“I did: a young visiting Irish clergyman named Mr. Pryce. He came to tea one afternoon, spent perhaps two hours in my company, and wrote the next day to propose. I have heard of love at first sight, but that did beat all! Coming as it did, just five months after your brother’s offer, it occasioned much teasing from my brother and sisters.”

We laughed, and walked on in silence for some moments, taking in the breathtaking view of the Derbyshire country-side. Insects buzzed; sheep baaahed; birds twittered; wildflowers bloomed in abundant glory; and all about us was fragrant, green, and lush, bathed in the golden glow of the setting summer sun, in a pink and amber sky.

When I glanced again at Ellen, to my surprise, she looked downcast. “Is something wrong, Nell?”

“No. Yes.” Ellen sighed. “I was thinking about Mr. Vincent.”

“Oh.” Mr. Vincent was the young man who had once loved Ellen deeply, and whose proposal
she
had refused. “You do not regret your choice in that affair, do you?”

“Sometimes I do. My family thought him entirely suitable.”

“So they informed me, in numerous communications. As Mr. Vincent was a clergyman, and the eldest son of an eminent and wealthy surgeon, he did sound like your ideal counterpart.”

“Perhaps in theory; but it took him
for ever
to get around to actually making me an offer. Oh! Charlotte, if only you could have seen him. He was so eccentric, and so shy and awkward; he
could barely manage a coherent syllable in my presence. When I tried to imagine spending the rest of my life with him—and sharing my
bed
with him—it made me sick and anxious.”

“Well then, you made the right decision,” said I. “If I ever do marry, I must passionately adore my husband. I must be able to look up to him, to revere both his character and his intellect. He must have the soul of a poet, and the sense of a judge; he must be kind and considerate, esteemed by all who know him; a man who admires women and sees them as his equal; and he must be older than I.”

“How old? Do you wish for some white-haired or bald-headed swain?”

“No thank you; but he must be at least thirty-five, with the sense of forty.”

“The gentleman you just described is a tall order. Have you conjured him out of thin air, or is he based on any one in real life?”

I felt a blush cross my countenance; I had, I just realised, unwittingly described my Belgian master—a man Ellen knew very little about, and a relationship of which I had never spoken. “He is entirely a product of my imagination,” said I quickly.

“Perhaps we will both be lucky, and find a suitable parson or curate among our acquaintances who fills the bill.”

“Oh! I am convinced I could never be a
clergyman’s
wife. My heart is too hot, and my thoughts too wild, romantic, and wandering, to suit a man of the cloth.”

“Most of the eligible men we meet
are
clergymen. Whom else are you to marry, Charlotte, if not a member of the clergy?”

“No one, perhaps. To be honest, at our age, I think it highly unlikely that some model of male perfection is going to show up and offer us his hand. Even if such a man did exist, and even if he
did
appear, I probably should not want him. We will just be old maids together, Nell—and live very happily on our own.”

“But if you do not marry, what will you do? If I remain single, I have my brothers to support me; whereas you—” Ellen broke off.

“Whereas my brother is perfectly useless,” I finished for her. “Do not be afraid to say it, Nell; it is no secret. Branwell is a charming fellow, when he is sober; but he is unreliable, and he is no bread-winner. How he has managed to keep his position at Thorp Green for such a long time is a mystery to me.” I sighed. “Papa, God bless him, will not live for ever. When I look to the future, I must look to myself. Mary Taylor told me years ago that every woman should and must be able to earn her own money, and she was right.”

We were both a little in awe of Mary Taylor. Still the vibrant and independent soul she had been in our school days, Mary had studied in Belgium at the same time as I, although at a different school, and had travelled a great deal on the Continent. When it became clear to her that she would not marry, she decided to join her brother Waring in New Zealand, to help run his general store. She had set sail only a few months before.

“Have you heard any more from Mary?” asked Ellen.

“Not since her last letter. Imagine, writing from four degrees north of the equator, and living on board ship for so many months, with all the heat, sickness, hardships, and dangers that entails! Yet Mary’s spirits seemed excellent.”

“New Zealand. Can you imagine it? To go off to a new country—”

“—to a new
hemisphere
! What a grand adventure! To attempt something brand-new and unheard of—would it not be thrilling?”

Ellen shook her head. “No. I think Mary is very brave; but to leave England permanently—to choose to live one’s entire life amongst foreigners, in a strange land—I would never wish it.”

“Perhaps you are right,” observed I, more soberly. “But—oh! I do so long for the
possibility
of change, Nell. I am twenty-nine years old, and I have done nothing yet with my life. I need to find an occupation, to become something better than I am. There must be some way for a proper Englishwoman to earn a
living, without leaving home—or the country! I intend to find it some day, or perish in the attempt.”

During my stay at Hathersage, Ellen—always a gregarious individual—filled our days with various and sundry adventures and many social calls, including tea with all the prominent families in the area. One of these calls, which made a deep and lasting impression on me, was a visit to North Lees Hall—an ancient, fifteenth-century gentleman’s manor-house at Outseats, inhabited by the Eyre family.

North Lees Hall was an immense grey stone house standing three storeys high, with battlements and turrets round the rooftop that gave it a picturesque look. Farther off were quiet and lonely hills, which created such an illusion of seclusion that it seemed impossible to believe the village of Hathersage lay so nearby. The house was situated on spacious grounds, with a wide green lawn in front and a rookery behind, whose cawing tenants circled in the sky above as we drove up.

“Is it not a wonderful old house?” declared Ellen.

“It reminds me of Rydings,” I replied.

The Rydings was Ellen’s childhood home: a large, old Georgian house that belonged to her uncle, with a similarly battlemented roof and rookery; it also lay in a vast, landscaped parkland of centenarian trees, including chestnuts and some double-thorns. I had greatly admired the house and grounds during my many visits there.

Now, as we alighted from the carriage outside North Lees Hall, I was struck by the grand, foreboding aspect of the place, which seemed to hint at some great secret hidden within its walls. The interior was even more impressive than its hoary front. From the moment we were welcomed inside, I caught my breath in wonder, exclaiming over the gleaming oak panelling, the sumptuous velvet draperies, the splendid antique furnishings, and the massive oak staircase that rose to the galleries above.

The drawing-room was particularly elegant, ceiled with snowy
mouldings of white grapes and vine leaves, the marble floors blanketed with white Turkey carpets brilliantly woven with garlands of flowers. It was in this room that the formidable Mrs. Mary Eyre, a white-haired widow splendidly attired in black satin, graciously received us for tea and cakes, with her three grown, unmarried daughters at her side. We sat on an assortment of crimson couches and ottomans, our images reflected back to us by large mirrors between the windows, which made the immense room appear doubly wide in size.

“The Eyres are a very old family,” explained Mrs. Eyre as she sipped her tea. “In St. Michael’s church, you will find brasses decorating the tombs of many an Eyre dating back to the fifteenth century. Some of the furniture in this house is very old as well.”

I was particularly taken by a large black cabinet, which was painted with the heads of the apostles. When I asked about it, Mrs. Eyre said with pride, “We call that the Apostles Cupboard. It has been in the family for nigh on four hundred years.”
¹⁸

After tea, Mrs. Eyre’s son George, a curly-haired lad of perhaps nineteen years of age, took us on a comprehensive tour of the house, ending with an ascent up a narrow flight of stairs to the battlemented rooftop, from which we enjoyed a sweeping vista of the hills and valleys beyond. So delighted was I by the view, that it was some time before I could be persuaded to descend. On our way down, we passed a heavy wooden door, which our guide explained led to the top floor’s servants’ quarters. “It is said that the first mistress of North Lees Hall, an Agnes Ashurst by name, was locked up on that floor in a padded room.”

“Why was she locked up?” I asked.

“Because she went stark raving mad. It is said the mad wife died in a fire.”

“A fire?” I repeated, greatly interested. “Did she set the fire herself?”

“No one knows, it happened so long ago. But they say her husband escaped, and that much of the house burnt down and had to be rebuilt.”

“What a terrifying tale,” remarked Ellen with a shudder.

What a
fantastic tale,
I thought. It was not the first time I had heard a story about a madwoman confined to an attic; the practice was not uncommon in Yorkshire, for in truth, what other recourse did a family have, when a loved one succumbed to a debilitating mental disorder?

Roe Head School had also come with its own legend about an occupant of the uninhabited upper storey of the house. In that case, it had been a female spirit—the first wife of the land-holder who built the house—who tragically fell down the stairs on her wedding night and broke her neck. My fellow students and I had spent many an evening exchanging whispered theories about the mysterious Ghost of Roe Head, whose silk dresses could be heard rustling against the attic floors above late at night.

As legend had it, the last surviving occupant of Roe Head, before it was relinquished to Miss Wooler, was an old gentleman of generally sanguine disposition, who heard a piercing laugh, then saw the departed spirit floating above the first-floor gallery. He was so frightened out of his wits that he left the house and vowed never to return. Although I had never seen evidence of the Ghost of Roe Head myself, I had not been able to get that story out of my mind; and this new tale—set against the spooky environs of ancient North Lees Hall, with its legend about a fire—particularly captured my imagination.

Some day, I vowed, I would write about it.