Romancing Miss Bronte (34 page)

“I cannot write books handling the topics of the day,” she wrote to George that winter. “It is of no use trying. Nor can I write a book for its moral. To manage great matters rightly, as Harriet Beecher Stowe did with
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
, they must be long and practically studied—their bearings known intimately and their evils felt genuinely.”

With Ellen, who had never been privy to her life as an author, she corresponded very little. When Ellen complained of her silence, Charlotte replied:

The lilacs and laburnums were in bloom in the garden, throwing off a sweet scent that Charlotte had breathed in all week long as she sat at the window sewing. There had been a deep pile of new white muslin frocks to finish off, and now they were all done and neatly folded, ready to be distributed to poor children to wear in the Whitsuntide procession the following day.

There was always a tremendous amount of work to be done. The festivities began with a reception at the parsonage for the patrons and teachers. At the appointed time, the parson and his curates would emerge and
make their way to the bottom of the packed lane, where the Sunday scholars, their teachers, and the brass band had gathered. Drums would roll, the church bells would ring out, and hundreds of the faithful would begin their slow, solemn advance through village and field.

In the past, her father had been at the helm. He was always a sight to see—the old warrior priest with his tall hat, walking staff, and that stupendous white cravat, striding out vigorously with the ferocious sense of righteousness that had served him well these many years amid these truculent souls. But now he went with them only to the bottom of the village, and when he returned he complained of weakness. Charlotte would serve him a little wine, and he would rest in his study until they returned.

Afterward came what Emily had once called a monster tea drinking, and the women certainly thought of it in that respect. Everything had to be done on a massive scale to serve the faithful in all three villages within the Haworth parish. In preparation for the day, every bench in the village had been pressed into service and set up in a mowed field above the village. Upon their return there were pints of ale waiting for the parched musicians, and for the children there were currant buns and sweetened tea.

The formal tea for the wealthy and the influential was held inside the schoolhouse, on tables set with snowy-white linens and bone china, with silver spoons and brass urns that had been polished to a shine. It was one of the few events of the year when Charlotte emerged in view of the entire village. It had always been her duty to preside at her father’s table, pouring and passing cups to the Merralls, the Greenwoods, and the Taylors. Her table was renowned for its neatness; there was never so much as a smudge on a cup, and the spoons were laid out in martial order.

Charlotte was bundling up the last of the clothing when Martha entered.

“You can tell your father these are ready to take to the church.”

“Yes, miss. Did you want to cut any lilacs for the table, miss?”

“I suppose so. A few.”

“Shall we wait until tomorrow?”

“We’re always so busy in the morning, Martha, with the reception here. I think I’ll just cut them and take them over now. They’ll keep overnight in water.”

The schoolroom was unrecognizable. Every corner had been soaped, scoured, and whitewashed. The school desks had been stacked to the side, replaced by rows of long tables. Scores of women in work aprons were cleaning off benches and setting out their best tea things, while others hung garlands of evergreens and flowers cut from their cottage gardens.

Charlotte lowered the armful of branches onto the table and looked up to see florid-faced Mrs. Grant beside her.

“How lovely! Lilacs! Oh, how we wish we had something growing at home, but we can’t get anything started.” Charlotte noticed that her stout little figure had grown stouter: she was expecting.

“Good day, Mrs. Grant.”

“Our table’s right next to yours. I’m so glad. We never see much of you. Or at least I don’t. It seems I never get out of Oxenhope anymore. Of course Joseph brings me news of you, but it’s not the same, is it? As sitting down to tea together.” She wrinkled up her nose and glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “I know it’s difficult for you in this dreary little place. It is for us, too. Such a want of elegance and good society. That’s why this sort of thing is so good for them, putting on their best clothes and coming to a proper tea. Having to behave like civilized folk for a change.” She laughed gaily at this.

Charlotte asked, “Have you seen Mr. Nicholls? Papa wanted a word with him.”

“Oh, he’s over there, with Miss Dixon.”

“Miss Dixon?” Charlotte squinted; she was not wearing her spectacles.

“The new mistress for the first class. She’s come from Manchester.” She leaned close to Charlotte again and whispered behind her hand. “Although I wouldn’t disturb him right now. I don’t think that would make him happy.” She smiled cheerily. “They’re hanging the canaries.”

“Canaries?”

“Miss Dixon thought it would be a lovely touch, to have them suspended from the ceiling and singing during the tea.”

“Canaries? Hanging from the ceiling?”

“Miss Dixon is very fond of canaries. She has five cages. She’s donating them just for tomorrow. Arthur’s been busy with them all morning.”

“Goodness. I’d think he’d have more pressing things to do,” Charlotte muttered. She began trimming the lilacs. “Well, I’ll speak to him later.”

“It would be so nice for him if they were to marry. She’s a very nice girl.” Sarah Grant smoothed out her apron and glanced at the pair in the corner. “Arthur’s such a good man.” She turned back to Charlotte and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “We need to find him a wife.”

Charlotte met Miss Dixon the next day at the parsonage reception. She struck Charlotte as a practical young woman, with a firm voice and a steady gaze, the sort that could be counted on to keep her wits about her in a crisis and raise sensible children. To any eye other than Charlotte’s, the woman’s attraction to Arthur would pass unnoticed. But Charlotte, observing keenly through her spectacles, caught the slight change in her expression when Arthur offered to fetch her a glass of wine, and the way she followed him with her eyes ever so briefly. It was noticeable like a breeze moving quietly among leaves.

“Nicholls, I say, we’ve been talking about the reforms we’ve accomplished, and Mr. Greenwood here reminded me of your battle with the washerwomen.”

It was her father, who had caught Arthur on the way back from the refreshment table.

“Ah, have you now?” He handed Miss Dixon her wine, attempting to avoid Patrick, but the room was too crowded and there was nowhere to flee.

“We have to be thankful for the small victories, don’t we, Nicholls? Still can’t get clean water in the village, but at least we’ve no longer got sheets flying from the tombstones, thanks to you.”

“Indeed,” Arthur replied stiffly. He turned to Miss Dixon. “It was one of those vulgarizing local customs that had gone unchecked for
years. Quite a battle, but I was victorious in the end.” He shot a quick, sparring glance at Patrick over the rim of his glass. “Although I daresay the battle was a lonely one.”

“Quite an upheaval, that was,” John Brown laughed. “Our women don’t take lightly to bein’ told to change their ways.”

Mr. Heaton said, “I recall ’ow I saw old widow Burder tryin’ to sneak up the lane early one mornin’ with her basket o’ sheets—headin’ straight for the churchyard despite Mr. Nicholls ’ere just ’avin’ announced from the pulpit that dryin’ sheets on the tombstones was prohibited. She caught sight of Mr. Nicholls and she turned round slick as a whistle and tottered right back down the lane—heavin’ an’ pantin’ like a ghost was after her.”

The churchwarden said to Arthur, “Did you not write a poem on the subject?”

Arthur chuckled. “No sir, not I.”

Patrick turned sharply on Greenwood and peered over the rims of his spectacles. “It was
I
who wrote the poem.”

“Well, then let’s hear it.”

Hartley Merrall stepped into the group with his plate piled high with macaroons. “Don’t be bashful now, sir—go on, let’s hear it.”

Someone laughed, “Bashful? Mr. Brontë?”

The other guests were turning their attention toward the parson. “By all means, Mr. Brontë. Let’s have a recitation.”

“Yes, let’s hear it!”

Patrick paused, waiting until they grew silent; then he began reciting in his grand and dramatic manner.

“The Parson, an old man, but hotter than cold …”

He boomed on through the titters and smiles, thoroughly enjoying the audience. When he came to the part about Arthur, he turned to his curate with a comic flourish.

Charlotte contrived to steal a glance at Arthur over the rim of her cup. Arthur was staring into the air with his granite-like expression, but all of a sudden his eyes—most uncontrollably—flitted to catch Charlotte’s gaze. He turned a frightful color of red and glanced away again.

At that moment the church bells began to peal, signaling the call to line up for the procession. There was a hearty applause, and the guests, believing Mr. Brontë had finished, began to set down their plates and leave the room.

“Wait!” he cried. “There’s more!”

“Papa,” Charlotte cautioned in a low voice, with a light touch on his arm. She recalled the last lines, their casual cruelty.

But he would not stop. For effect, he removed his spectacles and spoke solemnly, with a funereal tone:

There were a few low chuckles. Greenwood and Michael Merrall clapped Arthur on the back. Arthur attempted a smile but his eyes swelled with humiliation.

Miss Dixon blushed deeply, her gaze drawn to the worn carpet. Not a word passed between them. She set down her glass and turned to the door.

Arthur glowered at Patrick on the way out.

That evening, as Charlotte was folding his newspapers and tidying up his desk, she said to her father, “You may very well be wrong about Mr. Nicholls, Papa.”

“How’s that, my dear?”

“About marrying. I think he has his sights set on Miss Dixon. She certainly has her sights on him, and she is quite the type to snare her man.”

Patrick peeled off his wire spectacles and glared sternly at her from beneath his thick black brows. He looked very tired. He had come home, changed into his slippers, and fallen asleep in his chair.

“Miss Dixon? The new schoolmistress?”

“The one.”

“That would be inconvenient. If he marries he’ll need to find his own living somewhere. Couldn’t possibly keep a wife on his paltry income. I should not like to lose Nicholls. I’d be hard-pressed to find a man as capable.”

“So you admit your curate has some qualities.”

“Of course he has qualities,” he frowned. “But I shall not inflate his vanity with false flattery.”

He rose stiffly from his chair and took the candle from his desk.

She watched from the hallway while he climbed the stairs to the landing and paused to wind the grandfather clock.