Romancing Miss Bronte (17 page)

“Well, he’s just pulled another of his deceitful little tricks, trying to make money.”

“What has he done?”

“He did this: he took Anne’s new novel and sold it to an American publisher—a serialized version, I believe—but he’s advertised the book in a way that implies that the author is Currer Bell—the author of
Jane Eyre
. He’s been telling everyone that we’re all the same author. That there’s only one of us, and that’s me.”

Emily swatted at the fly buzzing around her face. “That’s nothing new,” she replied, falling back into the cool grass and closing her eyes. “The critics have been speculating about that for months.”

“Yes, the critics have, but our publishers know quite well that we are not the same people, that there are three of us. Mr. Williams and Mr. Smith know that there are three brothers who all write different books and that Currer Bell has only written one. So far. At least that’s what they used to think …”

Charlotte paused to open the collar of her dress and fan herself.

“It’s so hot,” she said. She was losing her temper with Emily, and that was never the way to deal with her. She stood there trying to cool down until Anne came up the hill holding a parasol and an oilcloth under her arm. They spread the oilcloth on the grass, then pulled up their skirts and sat down.

“Can’t you see where this is leading, Emily?” Charlotte began, trying to keep her voice low and calm. “Please do sit up and listen.”

“I can hear quite well with my eyes closed,” she mumbled.

“My publishers got wind of it all, and they think that I’ve written a new book and sold it to someone else. While I’m under contract to them. They’re furious. They demand explanation.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“They need to know that there are three of us.”

“So write to them again.”

“Emily, they need to see us. They need to see three bodies.”

Emily shot upright. “Oh, no,” she warned, in a hotly defensive tone. “I’m not meeting anybody.”

“This is critical. You need to meet Mr. Newby face to face.”

“No, I don’t. It’s Anne’s novel he’s advertising falsely. Anne should go.”

Anne spoke up quietly; she always waited for just the right time to be heard and inevitably trumped the game. “But I am going. I already told Charlotte. I think we must set Newby straight. He’s been devious with us from the start, and I think a surprise visit from his authors is just what he needs. Besides, I’ve never been to London and I should very much like to go. I’m ready to leave today.”

Emily glared at them. It irked her when Anne took Charlotte’s side. “Then go. But you must swear to me that you will never refer to me by name. I shall remain your brother Ellis Bell.” Her gray eyes fixed them with a sharp gaze; it was enough to send a chill through both sisters, even on a sweltering day.

“So you’re not coming?” Anne asked.

“If you go, you don’t need me.”

“Then we’d better get bustling, Anne,” Charlotte said briskly, and she rose and shook out her skirt.

She went directly to her father to make her case. The fact that he did not yet know that Anne had written a novel required Charlotte to shade the truth, which she was quite willing to do. A rational man, he saw the necessity of her making a visit to her publisher accompanied by Anne, and offered to pay their expenses, but Charlotte felt the cost should be her burden. She had already received two hundred pounds for her novel, and it gave her great satisfaction to have her own money to spend.

That very afternoon they sent off their luggage, and after tea they set out to walk the four miles to Keighley. The sky was the color of India ink and thunderclouds were advancing swiftly from the west, but Charlotte would not be deterred. They plodded through a good half hour of stinging rain along the way and arrived at the train station soaked to the skin. In Leeds, Charlotte gladly paid for first-class sleeper tickets on the night train to London, and they managed to dry out their muslin dresses and shawls, although Charlotte didn’t sleep a wink.

They arrived at eight in the morning and without the remotest idea of where to find lodging. They took a cab to the Chapter Coffee House in Paternoster Row, where she and Emily had stayed on their way to Brussels. Charlotte remembered it as being past its prime then, and it had certainly not improved in the six years since.

The coffeeroom downstairs was still a dingy, worn-out place, with heavy beams and a low ceiling. Their room was no better: a washstand stood precariously on feeble legs, a dresser bore the scars of years of careless use, and the wallpaper was faded and peeling. The floor sloped toward two high, narrow windows that looked out onto a forest of soot-blackened chimneys. Charlotte suspected that the room had not been cleaned, or even used, in months. But it had the advantage of being situated in the heart of the old publishing district, and Cornhill was only a few minutes away.

Charlotte leaned toward the mirror above the washstand and studied the face framed by the deep hood of her summer bonnet. She had never liked her looks, and a sleepless night hadn’t improved on her complexion, which tended toward ruddiness and now, after a thorough washing
in cold water, seemed to glisten in the morning light. Her eyes were shot with red, and her tiny hands were already trembling.

“Oh, Annie,” she said, tying on the bonnet, “I don’t know how to reconcile myself to myself sometimes. Here we are, away from home, out in the big city on our way to meet our publishers—everything I’ve craved so keenly—but I can’t enjoy it. You know I’ll pay for all this pleasure with a splitting headache in a few hours.”

Anne sat patiently waiting on the bed, already neatly done up. “You’ll feel better after you’ve had breakfast. It will calm your nerves.”

“I couldn’t possibly eat anything.”

“Yes, you can.” She rose to take the ribbon out of Charlotte’s hands and tied a neat knot beneath her chin. “There, how’s that?”

Charlotte turned back to the mirror and glowered at her reflection. “We’re such country bumpkins.”

“Yes, we are, but we happen to be rather famous ones.” She passed Charlotte’s spectacles to her and said cheerfully, “Shall we go, Currer?”

Paternoster Row was a dark and narrow street with gloomy warehouses rising on both sides. More than a century ago, at the request of the eminent publishing houses situated there, posts had been driven into the flagstones at each end to prohibit horse-and-carriage traffic. A queer silence reigned here, not so much that of tranquillity as of decay. Charlotte and Emily gathered up their skirts, picking their way across the flagged street and the trickle of sewage, and hurried toward the bright, bustling thoroughfare of Cheapside.

On the corner they came upon a driver who was unloading kegs from his wagon, inconveniencing a carriage and provoking a good deal of shouting, so that Anne and Charlotte had to struggle through the crowd that was beginning to form. It was just the sort of thing Charlotte needed, a bit of riotous London to strip away her self-consciousness. From there on, the walk to Cornhill was like an adventure on the high seas; it was only a half mile, but it took them nearly an hour. There was in that festering capital all the excitement she had so keenly missed since Brussels. She had come here once before in the firm belief that her life
was just beginning, and today she felt that she was picking up where she had left off. The four years in between Brussels and now were only dreary, empty spaces, an emotional wasteland where she had survived through the richness of her imagination.

No. 65 Cornhill was a large bookseller’s shop, full of young clerks who glanced up curiously as the door opened and two provincial-looking women stepped inside. Charlotte immediately felt the heat of their stares—she knew how she and Anne must appear, in plain silk dresses remade countless times, and retrimmed bonnets. They stood there for a moment, pale-faced and unsure of themselves, setting off a few titters of laughter among the younger lads.

Determined to hide her nervousness and ignore the mocking stares, Charlotte stepped up to the counter. She caught the attention of a clerk and said in a quiet voice, “I’d like to see Mr. Smith, please.”

The lad darted a look at her, wondering what business someone like her might have with Mr. George Smith, but he checked his inclination to ask questions and went off to fetch his employer.

Charlotte and Anne waited for some time on the bench before the boy reappeared.

With a faint air of condescension he said, “Mr. Smith regrets that he is very busy just now, ma’am. He’d like to know who’s asking for him, if you please, ma’am.”

Charlotte replied firmly, “I regret that I am not at liberty to give you our names. Just tell Mr. Smith we’ve come on private business.” Charlotte then lowered her voice and added, with a hint of mystery, “I can assure you, Mr. Smith will want to see us.”

When George Smith came out from the back of the shop, Charlotte thought it couldn’t possibly be him. She had imagined someone older; certainly she had never dreamed he would be so fine-looking. He dismissed the boy with a sharp word, and she could tell he was impatient at being disturbed on this Saturday morning, but he stepped forward and addressed her in a kindly manner, and she liked him immediately because of this.

“Did you wish to see me, ma’am?”

“Are you Mr. George Smith?”

“I am.”

He watched while she drew a letter out of her skirt pocket. It was the last letter he had written to Currer Bell.

At first, he was completely baffled; he did not suspect it was her. Currer Bell had always made it clear that they would never meet.

“Where did you get this?” he asked sharply.

She gave him one of her wry smiles. “Why, sir, it arrived in the post. Just like all your correspondence.”

She saw that he still didn’t understand. Later she would recall this moment with pleasure, watching him grapple with the vast disparity between how she appeared and how he had imagined her. With a confused look he turned the letter over in his hand and glanced again at her. Then, with delight, she saw the surprise when it dawned on George Smith that this child-sized woman with great honest eyes was the literary lion Currer Bell.

Charlotte offered her gloved hand and said, “I’m Miss Brontë, although you know me by another name as well.”

Indicating her sister with a glance, she whispered, “And this is my brother Mr. Acton Bell.”

He shook Anne’s hand, and then he was the nervous one. The shop had gone quiet, and all the ears were straining to hear.

“Please, ladies, come into my office.”

He hurried them past the gawking clerks, snapping orders along the way: one boy was sent to find Mr. Williams, another dispensed across the street to fetch coffee, a third told to bring an additional chair.

His office was not as grand as Charlotte had imagined, but there was the skylight and a bewitching clutter of manuscripts and hundreds of books. The grandest interior of the most splendid residence would not have suited her better than this cramped room. A second chair was brought in, books were piled up to make more space, and as soon as they had settled down and the door was closed, Charlotte launched into an
apology, along with a vehement condemnation of that greedy and scurrilous Newby.

“He knows the truth, sir, I promise you. He has never been misled by either of my sisters or myself.”

“There’s a third sister?”

Charlotte went quite red and added quickly, “Ellis insists that he be known only by his published name, and I’m afraid I misspoke in referring to him as my sister.”

George Smith smiled. “I understand.”

“I wanted you to see with your very eyes that we are separate people, and I thought this was the only way you might believe me. I could not persuade Ellis to accompany us—he is by nature reclusive, and a visit to the city would be most distressing to him—but as you can see, there are at least two of us.”

George said to Anne, “And so you are the author of this new novel?”

Anne smiled and with quiet dignity said, “I am indeed the author of
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
.”

George heaved a sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair, surveying his two authors.

“Oh, this is fine!” he said, clapping his hands in boyish exuberance. “What a day!” He broke into a broad smile, showing deep dimples that completely transformed his face so that you couldn’t help but smile in return, and Charlotte was completely captivated. “Oh, there is so much you must see while you’re here. There’s the opera tonight—you do like Italian opera, do you not?”

“I have never had the pleasure, sir,” Charlotte said. She found it difficult to repress a smile in his presence.

“Oh, my goodness, well—that you must not miss. And then there’s the exhibition. And you must allow me to honor you with a dinner party.”

“We intend to stay in London only a few days, sir.”

“Then we shall have the dinner tomorrow.”

“But that’s such short notice.”

“It can be managed.”

At that moment the door opened and Mr. Williams entered. Charlotte shook the hand of the stooped white-whiskered man and thought how different her life might have been were it not for his fateful intervention. But it was George Smith who captured her attention, and she felt immediately at ease with him. The boy arrived with refreshments, and after they were served and the boy dismissed, George stirred his coffee and made plans to entertain the great Currer Bell.