The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (2 page)

“Perhaps he will suit.”

“We can always hope. A good curate will buy papa a measure of time, and then we can all determine what we must do.”

“There be no sich thing as a good curate ony more,” grumbled Tabby, our white-haired servant, in her broad Yorkshire drawl, as she hobbled into the kitchen with a basket of apples from the larder. “Them young parsons to-day is so high an’ so scornful, they set everybody beneath their fit. In this house, I’m a servant, an’ so not worthy o’ their civility; an’ they’re always speaking against Yorkshire ways an’ Yorkshire folk. An’ th’ way they drop i’ from th’ sky for tea or supper at th’ parson’s house, why there be no excuse for ’t. It’s just for naught else but t’ give women-folk trouble.”

“I would not mind so much,” I interjected, “if they would only seem satisfied with what we serve them; but they always complain.”

“Th’ old parsons is worth th’ whole lump o’ college lads,” said
Tabby with a sigh as she sank into a chair at the table and began to peel the apples. “They know what belongs t’ good manners, an’ is kind t’ both high an’ low.”

“Tabby,” said I suddenly, glancing at the clock on the mantel, “has the post come?”

“Aye, an’ there be nothing for ye, bairn.”
³

“Are you sure?”

“I have two eyes, don’t I? Who d’ye expect t’ be writing? Didn’t ye jist get a letter from your friend Ellen, not two days sin’?”

“I did.”

Emily glanced sharply at me. “Do not tell me you are still hoping for a letter from Brussels?”

I felt a heat rise to my face, and perspiration break out on my brow; I told myself it was the warmth of the fire, and had nothing to do with Emily’s remark, or the intensity of her penetrating gaze. “No, of course not,” I lied. I wiped my forehead with the corner of my apron. In so doing, my spectacles became dotted with flour; I removed them briefly, and gave them a gentle polishing.

In truth, I had five precious letters from Brussels hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser: letters from a certain man, which had been read and re-read so often that they threatened to crumble at the creases from wear. I longed for yet another missive, but it had been a full year since I received the last one, and the sought for letter never came. I felt Emily’s eyes upon me; of all the people in the family, she knew me best—and she never missed a thing. Before she could say more, however, the wire of the door-bell began to vibrate; then the bell itself rang.

“Who could ’at be i’ this awful weather?” asked Tabby.

At the sound of the bell, the two dogs who had been lying contentedly by the fire leapt to their feet. Flossy, our sweet-natured, silky-haired, black-and-white King Charles spaniel, just blinked with quiet interest. Emily’s dog Keeper, a bulky, lion-like, black-headed mastiff, barked loudly and bolted for the kitchen door; in
a flash, Emily grabbed his brass collar and held him back.

“Keeper, hush!” exclaimed Emily. “I do hope it is not Mr. Grant or Mr. Bradley come for tea. I am in no mood to serve the local curates to-day.”

“It is too early for tea,” said I.

Keeper continued to yap furiously; it took all of Emily’s might to restrain him. “I will lock him in my room,” said Emily, as she hastened out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

I understood Emily’s abhorrence of strangers well enough to know that she would not be returning with equal haste. As Tabby was old and lame, and Martha Brown, the servant-girl who generally handled the heaviest share of our house-work, had gone home for a week with a sore knee, it was my unspoken job to answer the door.

Hot and tired after a full morning in the kitchen, I had no time to consider my appearance, other than a passing glance in the entrance-hall looking-glass. I had never liked to look at my image; I was extremely small and short of stature, and I always found dissatisfaction in the plain, pale face reflected there. Now, to further my dismay, a brief glimpse reminded me that I was attired in my oldest and most unflattering dress; a kerchief covered my head; my apron was streaked with flour and spices from the pie in progress; and my hands and forehead were dusted with flour as well. I quickly dabbed at my forehead with my apron, which only made matters worse.

The bell rang again. With Flossy’s toe-nails clicking against the stone floor at my heels, I hastened down the hall, went to the front door, and opened it.

Rain and wind blew in with a frigid blast. A young man who appeared to be in his late twenties stood on the steps before me, clad in a black coat and hat, beneath a beleaguered black umbrella, which, to his consternation, suddenly turned inside out in a gust of wind. With the partial protection of the umbrella now gone, he appeared, at first glance, like nothing so much as a very tall, drowned rat. His squinting, frantic efforts to right his umbrella and blink back the driving rain made it difficult to
accurately perceive his features, a circumstance compounded when, upon catching sight of me, he immediately withdrew his hat, receiving in return an even more thorough dousing from the elements.

“Would your master be at home?” The Celtic lilt of his deep, rich voice, which at once announced his Irish origins, was further complicated by a hint of Scottish.

“My master?” I repeated indignantly—an emotion followed by mortification. He had mistaken me for a servant! “If you are referring to the Reverend Patrick Brontë, he is indeed at home, sir, and he is my father. Please excuse my appearance. I do not generally greet visitors covered in flour from head to toe. It is baking-day.”

The young man did not appear in the least perturbed by his blunder (perhaps because he was being pelted by freezing rain), but only said, squinting, “I beg your pardon. I’m Arthur Bell Nicholls. I’ve been corresponding with your father regarding the position of curate. I wasn’t expected until to-morrow, but as I arrived in Keighley a day earlier than anticipated, I thought I might drop by.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Nicholls. Please walk in,” I urged politely, stepping back and allowing him to sweep past me into the entry way. When I had shut the door against the howling wind and rain, I smiled up at him and remarked, “It is truly a frightful storm, is it not? I keep expecting to see a parade of animals heading down the lane, two by two.”

I waited for him to smile, or to respond in a similar light vein, but he stood staring at me like a statue, hat and umbrella in hand, dripping onto the stone floor. Now that he was in from the elements, I could perceive that he was a strongly built, dark-complexioned man with an attractive, broad-featured face, a prominent but handsome nose, a firmly set mouth, and thick, very black hair which, drenched as it was, lay plastered to his skull in streaming tendrils. He stood at least six feet tall—a full foot taller than I. I recalled from his letter that he was twenty-seven years old—nearly two years younger than I; he would look
even younger, I thought, if not for the thicket of long, neatly trimmed black side whiskers which framed his otherwise whisker-free face. His eyes were reserved and intelligent; however, he now tore that gaze from mine and glanced shyly about the hall, as if determined to look anywhere but at me.

“I imagine,” I tried again, “that you are accustomed to such downpours in Ireland?”

He nodded, staring at the floor, and made no reply; apparently, his declaration at the door was to be his only attempt at speech. Flossy stood at the newcomer’s feet, looking up at him with curious, expectant eyes. Mr. Nicholls, although wet and clearly very cold, smiled at the dog, and bent down and gently patted his head.

Wiping my floury hands as best as I could on my apron, I said, “May I take your hat and coat, sir?”

He looked dubious, but silently handed me his dripping umbrella, then removed said garments and gave them to me. I saw that his shoes were soaked through and caked with mud residue. “Do not tell me that you walked all the way from Keighley in this weather, Mr. Nicholls?”

He nodded. “I’m sorry about your floor. I tried to scrape off as much mud as I could, before I rang the bell.”

He had spoken! Two complete sentences, however brief! I considered this a minor victory. “This stone is quite accustomed to tracked-in mud, I assure you. Would you like to warm yourself by the kitchen fire, Mr. Nicholls, while I get you a towel?”

He looked alarmed. “The kitchen? No thank you.”

I was taken aback by the surprised condescension in his tone when he spoke the word “kitchen.” It implied, to my ears, an intrinsic repugnance to the very essence of the place: as if he considered a room so generally affiliated with women-folk too far beneath him to enter. My dander rose. “I am sorry there is no fire in the dining-room,” I returned testily, “or I would offer you that. But it is very warm and cosy in the kitchen. You would be welcome to dry yourself there for a few minutes, with no one to disturb you but me and our servant, before I show you in to
my father’s study.”

“I will see your father now, if I may,” he replied quickly. “Surely he has a fire. I would appreciate a towel.”

Well, I thought, as I moved off to obtain the requested item: here is a very proud, arrogant Irishman. Our former curate, the despised Reverend Smith, appeared to me a real prize in comparison. I returned a few moments later with a towel. Mr. Nicholls wordlessly wiped the excess moisture from his hair and face, then used it to clean off his shoes; finally, he handed the sodden and filthy article back to me.

Anxious to be rid of him, I crossed to the door to papa’s study and said, “As I have been lately handling my father’s correspondence, I believe I warned you: my father’s vision is much impaired. He will be able to see you, but the image is hazy. The doctors say that eventually he will go completely blind.”

Mr. Nicholls’s only response was a grave nod, accompanied by: “Yes, I recall.”

I knocked at the study door, waited for papa’s response, then opened the door and announced Mr. Nicholls. Papa rose from his chair by the fire and greeted the newcomer with a surprised smile. Papa was a tall, thin but sturdy man, his formerly handsome face lined with age. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles similar to mine, sported his black parson’s garb seven days a week, and his shock of white hair was the same colour as the snowy expanse of cravat which he always wound around his neck so abundantly (to ward off the possibility of catching cold), that his chin disappeared entirely inside it.

Mr. Nicholls crossed the room and shook papa’s hand. I left them together and hurried upstairs to tidy myself, mortified that I had greeted a stranger in such disarray. I removed my kerchief and ensured that my brown hair was neatly arranged, swept up, and pinned in place. I then changed into a clean, silver-grey frock—silk, of course. (Since we came to Haworth, papa had read the burial service for so many children whose clothing had caught fire, resulting from a too-close proximity to the hearth, that he eschewed cotton and linen, insisting that we wear only
wool or silk, which ignite less easily.) Newly arrayed in my Quaker trim, I felt more comfortable and at ease. I may, I thought, lack the advantages of personal beauty, but at least I would no longer embarrass myself before our visitor in my manner of dress.

Emily was back at work in the kitchen when I returned, and I re-enacted, for her and Tabby, the little scene that had occurred at the front door. “‘The
kitchen?
’” said I, attempting to imitate Mr. Nicholls’s voice and disdain. “‘No
thank you.
’ As if he would never deign to set foot in a room so generally inhabited by
women.
”

Emily laughed.

“He sounds like a right brute,” observed Tabby.

“Let us hope it is a brief interview, and we will soon see the last of him,” said I.

When I approached the study with the tea-tray, I could hear, through the partially open door, the deep tones of the two Irishmen conversing within. Mr. Nicholls’s Irish accent was very pronounced, spiced by that intriguing hint of Scotch. Papa had tried to lose his own accent since the day he started college, but an Irish lilt always marked his speech, and it had rubbed off on all his offspring, myself included. The two men were going at it full tilt; there now came a sudden outburst of hearty laughter—a circumstance which surprised me, as I had been able to induce so few syllables out of Mr. Nicholls myself, and not a single smile.

I was just about to enter, when I overheard papa say, “I told them: stick to the needle. Learn shirt-making and gown-making and pie-crust-making, and you’ll be clever women some day. Not that they listened to me.”

To which Mr. Nicholls replied, “I agree. Women are at their best in the occupations God gave them, Mr. Brontë—when sewing or in the kitchen. You are indeed most fortunate to have two spinster daughters to run your household.”

Sudden fury and indignation rose within me; I nearly dropped my tray. I was fully acquainted with papa’s views where women were concerned; my sisters and I had spent a lifetime arguing with him on the subject, trying, without success, to con
vince him that women had as much intellectual prowess as men, and should be allowed to spread their wings beyond the kitchen door. He had relented in practice—by finally letting us study history and the classics along with our brother—but not in theory, firmly convinced that our learning Latin and Greek and reading Virgil and Homer was a complete waste of our time.

I could excuse such bigotry from papa, even if I could not condone it; he was sixty-eight years of age, a dear old man blinded not only in body but in mind, by the beliefs of the men of his generation. But from a young, college-educated man like Mr. Nicholls—who was being considered for a position which would require him to work closely with people of all genders and ages in our community—one would hope for a more open-minded, free-thinking perspective!

Seething, I leaned backwards against the door, pushing it the rest of the way open as I marched into the room. The two gentlemen were seated in close proximity by the hearth. The warmth of the fire had worked its wonders: Mr. Nicholls looked warm and dry, and his dark hair, now parted to one side over his wide forehead, was smooth and thick, with a healthy sheen. On his lap reclined our black tabby cat, Tom; Mr. Nicholls was smiling broadly and absently stroking the animal, who purred contentedly. The glowing look on the gentleman’s countenance faded, however, as I approached; he sat up straighter, causing the cat to leap from his lap. Clearly, this man did not like me. I hardly cared, for with his last remark, I had just lost any respect I might have held for him.