Romancing Miss Bronte (40 page)

The massive wooden door groaned as it opened and Arthur raised his lantern, casting light into the dank gloom of the old church. He glanced up into the vast empty shadows, remembering his arrival eight years ago. A swell of sadness rose to his throat, but he shook it off and crossed the cold stone floor toward the vestry.

“Good evenin’, Reverend. I didn’t mean to frighten ye, sir. I have the fair linen here, ready for tomorrow, all spotless and ironed without a wrinkle, the way ye like it.”

It was Mary Burwin from the Altar Guild, one of the devout church-women who laundered his surplices and kept the silver vessels polished. She had disliked him intensely the first year; he had been critical of the way she and the others had performed their duties—had scolded them for wine stains on the altar linens and for tarnished chalices, and for waiting so late to prepare the altar that folks were already taking their seats while they bustled around dusting and setting out candles. But those days were long gone; they understood each other now, and deep affection had grown over the years.

“It’s the red frontal for tomorrow, isn’t it, sir? The one Miss Brontë embroidered with the gold cross?”

“Yes, Mrs. Burwin. Thank you.”

She unrolled the end and held it up to the lantern to show him. The gold threads shone in the soft, glowing light.

“It’s a beauty, this hangin’, isn’t it, sir? Worthy of a great church. But then Miss Brontë’s stitches can’t be bested.” She rolled it back up and placed it in the cupboard with the silver. “Shall I lock it up, sir?”

When there was no reply, she turned. He seemed to have frozen, staring into the shadows, his eyes fixed but clouded.

“Sir? Do ye want it left open?”

He blinked. His eyes were full of tears.

“Oh, sir,” she said quietly, patting his arm with a work-callused hand. “We’re so sorry to see ye go. Truly, we are.”

“I see everything is in order,” he said stiffly. “I need not have worried that God’s holy gifts would not be prepared properly.”

“No, sir, ye need not worry yer head ’bout those things anymore. Ye taught us well, and we’re greatly beholden to ye.”

“You are a good servant to the Lord, Mary Burwin. A good servant.”

At these words of praise—all the more meaningful because they were so rare—Mary’s sere old face softened and tears stung her eyes.

Taking up his lantern he turned to go, and as he passed through the door, she called after him, “And don’t ye worry, sir. I’ll be in here early in the mornin’.”

An unusual stillness marked the congregation that morning. Everyone noted his heavy voice as Arthur delivered the sermon, and the heaviness reverberated throughout the silence.

He descended to the altar to receive their alms, leading them through the confession and absolution of their sins. He knelt, he rose; he raised the chalice in the prayer of consecration. His voice broke. The congregation heard it, and all movement ceased.

“Hear us, O merciful Father, we most humbly beseech Thee …”

He struggled on, his rocklike countenance in a battle with forces he could not hold back.

“… who in the same night that he was betrayed, took bread …”

Again the voice broke; he faltered, then lost control. Josh Redman was assisting; he stepped up to Arthur and murmured words of encouragement. Arthur struggled on but his voice was barely a whisper.

The communicants solemnly filed up and knelt before him. Charlotte had come alone this morning, without her father, intending to show Arthur by her solitary presence some token of regard. She had not thought it would be this difficult for him.

She knelt before him; he stood pale, shaking, voiceless. Never had she seen a battle more sternly fought with feelings than the one she witnessed that morning. His hands trembled as he held the cup to her lips to drink. She did not dare raise her eyes to him, could not speak to him or comfort him. She crossed herself, rose, and returned to kneel at her pew.

In the stillness, a sob broke from the back of the church. Then another. All around her, women were weeping. Charlotte—concealed behind her bonnet—wept quietly.

On her way out, she caught a glimpse of him surrounded by a small crowd of well-wishers. Mary Burwin stood nearby with a cluster of ladies from the Altar Guild, and there was not a dry eye in the lot. Charlotte avoided them; she slipped outside and hurried up the path to her home.

Charlotte had hoped her father wouldn’t hear about it, but he did. Undoubtedly John Brown or Josh Redman reported the incident because he brought it up at tea. He reacted with anger, thought Arthur’s conduct disgraceful. Called him an “unmanly driveler.” Charlotte had not expected compassion from him. She held her tongue.

Charlotte came to the kitchen with an envelope heavy with coin.

“Take this over to Miss Dixon at the school, Martha. Tell her it’s for the testimonial.”

“Miss Dixon’s gone, miss.”

“Gone?”

“Left yesterday. Got a job teachin’ in Skipton, I’m told.”

“I see. Well then, take it to the headmaster.”

With a glance toward the door, Martha cleaned her hands on the apron and whispered, “Is it for Mr. Nicholls?”

“Never you mind, Martha. Just take it.”

“I hear they’re gettin’ him a gold watch.”

“Go and come back quickly.”

“That’s real charitable of ye, miss.”

“Well, I should hope so, since no one else in this house seems to have any charity in their hearts for the man. Now hurry. And don’t tell a soul. Do you hear me? Not a soul.”

On his last evening in Haworth, Arthur called at the parsonage to hand over the deeds of the school to Patrick and to bid them farewell. When he came out of the parlor, he found the door to the dining room open. Inside, the rugs were rolled up, the furniture moved to the center of the room; Martha and her younger sister Eliza were washing down the walls. Martha was on her knees, ringing out a rag in a pail of water, when she saw him standing in the doorway.

“The mistress is upstairs, Reverend,” she whispered.

He nodded stiffly. The look of disappointment on his face tugged at Martha’s heart.

He lingered and seemed to wish to draw out the moment. “I see you’re up to a thorough spring cleaning.”

“No, this is somethin’ special, sir. Mrs. Gaskell’s comin’ for a visit, sir. She’s a famous author like our mistress.”

“I see. Well, good-bye then, Martha. Eliza.”

“Good-bye, sir.”

“May God …” His voice broke. The two women stared at him, a little in awe of this ox of a man so broken by love.

He turned and was gone.

Martha rose and dried her hands on her apron. “I’m goin’ to fetch the mistress.”

She slipped out of her wooden clogs and ran barefoot up the stairs. She found Charlotte in the front bedroom window, peering down at the garden below.

“Miss …”

“I know, Martha,” Charlotte said.

“He’s gone, miss. Gone for good.”

Charlotte spun around, dashed past Martha, and down the stairs. Martha thought she’d never seen Miss Brontë hurry so.

There were questions Charlotte wanted to ask him—where he was going, what he would do. She couldn’t have him leave thinking that she felt the same way her father did.

When she stepped outside and saw him leaning against the garden gate, her heart went out to him. He had paused there, unable to walk away, his head down, sobbing as though his heart would break. She went straight to him and stood at his side, looking up into his face. Suddenly, all those questions she had been burning to ask were swept from her thoughts.

“Mr. Nicholls, oh my dear fellow …”

His look was an appeal for hope and encouragement.

“My dear sir, you must not think me heartless. Your suffering … your constancy. I am not blind.”

He found his voice. “I have so much I would have liked to say … had I just been given a few hours with you …”

“I am so sorry.”

“Would you give me leave to write to you?”

“Oh, sir, there can be no exchange between us.”

“But you will not return my letters, you would not be so cruel.”

“My father—”

“I will find a way.”

“Where are you going?”

“I will come back for you.”

There was the sound of a shutter opening, and Charlotte started.

“You must go,” she urged him.

“I will return.”

He went out the gate and walked down the lane with a heavy step.

There was nothing more she could do. He was gone. Gone. That was the end of it.

She returned to her room upstairs and closed the door. Sitting on her bed, her hands clasped in her lap, she saw his face before her eyes. She recognized that look and knew what he was feeling. She had felt those same overwhelming emotions for Heger. That same kind of love. That same agony on parting, fearing she might never see him again.

A week later, Charlotte fell ill with influenza. She ran a high fever and a doctor was called from Leeds. She was in bed for nearly two weeks with severe headaches, too ill even to answer her own correspondence. To the more important letters from George Smith and Elizabeth Gaskell, she dictated replies through her father; Lily Gaskell’s visit, for which she had been so eagerly preparing, had to be postponed.

They all suspected that her illness had something to do with Arthur’s departure.

Then one night, when the servants had gone to their room and Patrick was on his way up to bed, Charlotte heard him cry out. Still weak, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and dragged herself from her bed to the stairs.

“Charlotte!” he cried. There was panic in his voice.

“What’s wrong, Papa?” she cried.

He stood on the staircase with his candle in his hand and his face stricken with terror.

“I can’t see!” he cried.

“But you have your candle.”

“I can’t see it! Has it gone out?”

“No, Papa, it’s not gone out.”

“It’s gone all black on me, Charlotte! Everything’s gone black! I’m blind! I’ve gone blind!”

She got him to bed—ill and weak as she was—then went outdoors, climbed the stairs to the servants’ room, and woke Martha.

“Go get Dr. Hall. Run. I think Papa’s had a stroke.”

Dr. Hall conferred with Charlotte downstairs, alone. “The paralysis seems to have hit the optic nerve.”

“Will he ever regain his sight?”

“I can’t tell you. He may or he may not.”

“God give us strength,” she whispered.

“There’s no way of knowing. He could get better.”

“We mustn’t tell him it was a stroke,” Charlotte warned. “It will only upset him.”

The following day the light began to return. Patrick said it was as if a thick curtain was gradually drawn up, leaving yet a dark veil. Within a few more days he could find his way around the house. Still, his vision was greatly dimmed and his spirits oppressed. Of course, Charlotte would not do anything to disturb his peace of mind. Arthur’s name would not be uttered again.

T
abby in her deafness seemed to understand more of Charlotte’s heart than anyone else that summer. With her wobbling head and palsied hand, she would hijack the postman in the garden or the lane and deliver the post straight to Charlotte. Then she would hobble slowly back to her chair in the corner of the kitchen and not move until the day was done.

So Arthur’s letters began to arrive that summer, and Charlotte handled the business the same way she handled all business with her father: discreetly.

“What about the new curate? Is he interesting?” Ellen asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Charlotte sighed. “Papa’s already grumbling.”

It was a glorious July day of hot sun and vast blue sky. Ellen had just arrived, and they had gone straight to Sladen Beck to see the waterfall. They sat on the mossy bank with their petticoats tucked between their legs and their bonnets dangling down their backs.

“Ellen, I’m afraid I may be making a terrible mistake.”

“In what way?”

“I may be throwing away something very precious, something that may not ever come along again.”

“I presume you mean Mr. Nicholls.”

“Yes.”

“But your father is against the marriage.”

“I’m thirty-seven years old. What other chances will I have to marry?”

“My dear, you are your father’s only stay in his declining age. Your first duty is to him. You must abide by his wishes. If it is our lot to remain single, then we must endure it.”

“And what shall I do when Papa’s gone? What would be left for me? With no one to love and no one to care for.”

“Oh, my dear Charlotte, you won’t be alone. We could take a cottage together. By the sea. We could go to Filey, on the cliffs, where Miss Wooler has her cottage. You would write and I could keep house for you.”

“So, that’s it. We shall be old maids together, till the end.”

“If it be God’s will.”

A long silence followed, with only the sounds of cascading water and the wind in the grasses.

“I had a letter from him.”

“From Mr. Nicholls?” Ellen’s voice was heavy with disapproval.

“He heard from Mr. Grant about Papa’s stroke—and that I was ill. He was quite anxious about us.”

“You didn’t answer, did you?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No.”

“You had no business opening the letter. You should have returned it.”

Charlotte remained silent.

“You’re not possibly taking this courtship seriously, are you?”

“I should like to have a chance to become better acquainted with him.”

“But you know him! And you’ve had nothing but scorn for him for years.”

Charlotte hesitated before confessing, softly, “I’ve not always been fair to him. I have too often exaggerated his faults and ignored his virtues. You know how harshly critical I can be.” She added, with wry grin, “Particularly of curates.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’d like to correspond with him.”

“You would deceive your father?”

“Only until I can be sure of my feelings.”

“Charlotte! I hardly recognize you anymore! After all these years of abiding by your conscience, you would put your own interests before those of your father.”