Romancing Miss Bronte (16 page)

“You fool!” Emily seethed, wheeling around to face her brother. “You selfish, self-pitying fool!”

“It’s no use,” Anne said, looking up with a tear-streaked face. “He can’t hear you.”

“Damn you, Branwell!” She threw down the bucket and slapped him hard across the side of the head.

He flinched and turned horrified, baffled eyes on her.

“Emily Jane, don’t!” Anne cried, stumbling to her feet.

Emily struck him again. He curled into a ball and covered his head with his hands to protect himself from the blows.

“You could have burned down our home! Is that what you want? You want us thrown out on the street and homeless?”

Anne began to scream, begging her to stop.

They had all grown up with a dread of fire, instilled in them by a father who had prayed over too many children who had burned to death. He allowed no curtains on the windows, only wooden shutters, and they had been taught to zealously tend all fires, oil lamps, and candles. That evening they sat with their father in his study and discussed how they
were going to protect themselves from their brother. Patrick saw only one solution: Branwell needed to be under constant surveillance. His door would remain open at all times during the day, and at night he would sleep in his father’s room. Patrick would lock them in at night and keep the key on himself so that Branwell would not wander.

“I am persuaded, children, that if I can keep him off drink long enough, these terrible deliriums will pass.”

Charlotte was firmly against the plan. “But what shall you do? Stay awake with him all night?”

“If I must. We will face his demons together.”

“He still manages to get himself drunk in the day, Papa. We can’t keep him a prisoner.”

“At least at night my household can sleep without fear.”

“Hardly, Papa. We’re more afraid for you than for ourselves.”

“He can’t harm me. He’s weak and ill.”

“And so shall you be if you spend your nights locked in a room with him.”

But he was resolved.

The following morning, when her father left the house for a meeting, Charlotte found John Brown in the churchyard. She asked him to come quickly to the parsonage to remove the loaded pistol hanging in her father’s bedroom; he was to take it up to the field, discharge the thing, then return it to the wall.

After that day, their father’s declining health began to concern them as much as their brother’s. In truth, the seventy-one-year-old parson had a remarkably strong constitution, although he would have his daughters believe otherwise; every attack of influenza or bronchitis sent him spiraling into a gloomy, mildly hysterical state of mind where he would convince himself that he was about to die and leave his children penniless. And now his spirits, too, were being worn down. They couldn’t help but notice the strain on him, and they talked about what they might do to cheer him. It was Emily’s idea to tell him about
Jane Eyre
.

The servants were out that afternoon and Emily was baking, a chore
she thoroughly enjoyed. She liked working at something that was physical and sensual, yet mechanical enough so that she could read while she kneaded, and compose lines of poetry in her head.

“I think Papa should know,” she said as she sprinkled flour over the table.

Charlotte looked up from the account books. “Know what?”

“That you’ve written the best novel of the season.” She scooped the sticky dough out of the bowl and worked it into a ball. “Anne and I have already discussed it.”

Charlotte glanced at Anne, who looked up from the silver teaspoons she was polishing and smiled in agreement. “We thought it might be just the thing to cheer him.”

“But he can’t know about
our
books, Anne’s and mine.”

A breeze swept through the window, and Charlotte laid down her pen and snatched the coal merchant’s bill just as it flew into the air.

“I’m not sure I want him to read it,” she said.

“Why?”

She closed the ledger and leaned forward on her elbows. She thought for a moment, then replied, “I’m afraid that he’ll find it second-rate. Just some silly domestic novel.”

Anne gasped, “Charlotte! What ever would make you think that?”

Charlotte said quietly, “Because I’m not his son.”

They were a little stunned at her frank admission, although they knew it was bitterly true.

Charlotte watched Emily knead and turn the dough, admiring the smoothly powerful movements of her hands and lean arms, and after a moment she added, “Deep down he will always regret that it wasn’t Branwell who earned all the accolades. We are his daughters, and it’s just not the same.”

Emily said, “You should show him the reviews.”

“Yes, I suppose that would help.”

“He’ll be proud of you, Charlotte. He ought to know what you’ve accomplished,” Anne said.

“And besides,” Emily pointed out, “we can’t keep rushing around snatching all the mail and fending off all the questions from the postman about Currer Bell. It was easy when he was blind, but now it’s a little like cat and mouse all the time.”

“Oh, it hasn’t been that difficult,” Charlotte answered. “Even when things pass right under his nose. He is infinitely uncurious about our lives.”

Anne added, “And we should be thankful for that. We’ve had enormous freedoms that other daughters don’t have.”

Charlotte asked her, “Would you like him to read
Agnes Grey
?”

“Then he’d know about Emily’s book. The reviewers always link our books together.”

“Then we’ll just keep doing what we’ve always done—we glance through the papers before they get to him and pull out any reviews that might tip him off.”

Emily said, “When I was in the village yesterday, I stopped in at Mr. Greenwood’s and asked if he had
Wuthering Heights
and
Agnes Grey
. Do you know what he said?” She smacked the dough onto the table and threw her weight into the rolling pin. “He said he didn’t have it and didn’t plan to order it.” Emily lowered her voice and fell into the Yorkshire dialect she imitated so well: “‘That
Wutherin’ Heights
seems to be a strange sort of book. About a savage family up here in our parts. A bit of a novelty. Nothin’ I’d recommend to ladies such as yourselves.’”

Anne said, “I am quite grateful now for our anonymity. I cannot imagine what our lives would be like if everyone knew we were the infamous Bell brothers. Although I confess there have been moments when I wished people knew I’d published a novel.” She paused to smile sweetly. “Not out of vanity, but because people have such a mild opinion of me or, rather, they have no opinion at all, and I think I am quite capable of something forceful, something that would shock them out of their complacency. I have seen a good deal of shocking behavior in the great houses where I worked … really shocking things that are condoned in the upper classes, and yet no one seems to find the voice to speak out
against them, or if you do, you’re considered vulgar and coarse. I find that the harsher the critics are on Emily, the more resolute I am that my second novel be unfailingly true to life.”

That was the first, the last, and the only time Anne expressed herself so freely and fully on her own writing, specifically on
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
. Charlotte, who had never approved of Anne’s choice of subject, had the good sense to keep her opinions to herself.

That evening, Charlotte stood at the door of her father’s study, clutching the three compact volumes of
Jane Eyre
. The room was sacred ground, and even after all these years, she still trembled a little on the threshold, even more so when she came with a request or seeking his approval. When she was eighteen, she had fretted for days before getting up the courage to ask for an allowance. He’d only laughed and said, “Now, what would a woman be wanting her own money for?”

He was reading by the light of his candle, and he did not look up when she entered.

“Papa,” she said, and then she suddenly lost her courage and her knees began to tremble.

“Yes, what is it, Charlotte?” Impatience shaded his voice.

“I’ve written a book.”

“Have you, my dear?” He continued to read.

“It would please me very much if you’d take a look at it.”

“You know I can’t be troubled to read manuscripts. It’s too hard on my eyes.”

“It wouldn’t be much of a strain, Papa.” A hesitation. “It’s in print.”

Finally he glanced up, wearing an expression of mild scorn. “I do hope you haven’t been involving yourself in any silly expenses, now.”

“No, Papa, on the contrary. I’ve already made a little money from it.”

His white brows arched and he lowered his head to peer over the rims of his spectacles.

“Made money, have you?”

“Yes, and I’ve brought you the reviews.” She set the books in front of him and placed the reviews neatly on top. “The reviews are rather good.”

He glanced down at
Jane Eyre
.

“All right. Leave it here. I’ll take a look at it.”

They were all too anxious to concentrate on their writing that evening. Anne, who had just received the printer’s proofs for
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
, put the pages aside and pulled out her knitting. Emily lay sprawled on her stomach on the floor with her feet in the air, reading
Mary Barton
, a gift to Currer Bell from the author. Charlotte was stitching a new apron, although the work was hard on her eyes. When the clock on the stairs struck nine, they heard the handle turn and looked up to see him standing in the doorway. He had changed dramatically over the past few months; the flinty old man with the ramrod-straight bearing had softened to something sadly fragile.

“Good night, children,” he said. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Oh, and you might like to know that Charlotte’s written a book. And it’s a better one than I had expected.”

After he had gone, Emily said, “Does he honestly think we don’t know about it?”

“Of course he doesn’t. It’s just his sense of humor,” Anne said.

“But that’s too dry even for me.”

“I’m sure he feels more than he shows,” Anne said.

Emily glowered at the door where he had been standing; she would have liked to thrash him just then.

Anne returned to her writing and Charlotte went back to calmly whipping stitches, which was also something that she did quite well.

Patrick Brontë wound the clock on the landing. Then he went on up the stairs to his room. His son was sound asleep on the tester bed, curled up in a tight ball. When he was asleep, the father could still see in him traces of the innocent and lovable boy, the onetime prince, the child of promise. Patrick took great care not to wake him. He sat on a chair by the bed, and while he unbuttoned his shirt he thought about his daughter Charlotte and this book she had written. For some time he had noticed that they always seemed to be busy writing, but he had not given it
much thought. As children they had written their little stories and occasionally brought them to him to read. He had been pleased that his daughters were occupied, but he had not once imagined that it would come to this.

He hung his trousers and waistcoat neatly on the chair, then unwound the high starched neckcloth and folded it on his dresser. He slipped on his nightshirt, blew out his candle, and knelt beside the bed to pray. His head was swimming with thoughts of his wretchedly failed son and his tiny, clever Charlotte, who had made him proud.

There was a coughing sound from the bed, and a rustle of sheets.

“Get up, old fool,” Branwell slurred, his lips caked with dried saliva. “Nobody up there to hear you.”

E
mily had caught Keeper sleeping on Charlotte’s bed, and she whipped him and dragged him growling and snarling down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door. When her temper had cooled, she went looking for him and made atonement with a piece of dried beef. Now they were both sunning themselves in the field just above the parsonage. Keeper’s fat belly rose and fell in a deep, heat-induced sleep, and occasionally his ear twitched away a fly. Emily lay on her back beside him with her hand shielding her eyes from the morning glare, following the shifting cloud shapes as they sailed across the sky in subtle variants of soft whites and grays. It was to her an achingly beautiful spectacle; it awed her that something could appeal so strongly to her senses and yet elude her touch. At moments like this, she did not want to be disturbed.

“There she is.”

It was Anne’s voice. His sleep interrupted, Keeper heaved a deep sigh.

“Emily, dearest, can you come down here? It’s really quite important.”

Emily groped for the dog at her side; his short-haired coat was smooth and warm. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him lift his head; he had heard their approach. Now they entered her line of sight, looking down at her, blocking the clouds.

“Emily dearest, we need to talk. Can you please come inside?”

She squinted up at them. Charlotte was wearing her agitated air.

“What’s this about?” Emily grumbled, raising herself on an elbow.

“Emmy, I don’t want to stand in the heat. Will you please come inside?”
Charlotte was being very firm, very bossy, and Emily wasn’t in the mood for bossy sisters.

Anne, always the reconciler, said, “I’ll fetch a parasol. You tell her about Newby.” And she went down the hill.

At the mention of her publisher, Emily sat up. “What about him?”

“He’s done a most unscrupulous thing.”

Neither Anne nor Emily were pleased with the way Newby conducted his business. It was clear that he’d brought out their novels only after Currer Bell had attained literary stardom and he’d realized he could profit by association with the name. Earlier that year, Charlotte had worked hard to persuade George Smith to publish her sisters’ next novels, and then Emily and Anne had refused his offer and remained with Newby instead, leaving Charlotte miffed and with egg on her face. It was another example of Emily choosing to be contrary just for the sake of being contrary, and refusing to be managed by her sister, even when her sister proved to have the better judgment.