The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (41 page)

“I am sorry.”

“Thank you. I owe everything I am to-day to my Uncle and Aunt Bell. She’s a wonderful woman. I’d love for you to meet her one day.”

“It would be an honour. How interesting to think that we were both raised by a maternal aunt.”

“We do have that in common.”

“What was your aunt and uncle’s house like?”

“Their house?” He hesitated. “It was filled with loving hearts, and I was made very welcome there. In the end, that’s all that matters, don’t you think?”

“I could not agree more.”

“My aunt and most of my cousins still live in Banagher; that’s who I visit every autumn, when I take my holiday.”

“Oh! All this time, I assumed you went back to see your mother and father.”

“No. My mother died when I was twelve. My father passed away five years ago, at the age of eighty—or so I’m told. For years, I felt guilty that I wasn’t there when they died.”

I shook my head sadly. “I know what it means to lose a mother so young. I was just five years old when my own mother passed away.”

“It leaves a great, empty space inside you, that can never be filled, don’t you find?” At my solemn nod he added, “I imagine that’s why all the major characters in your books are orphans, is it not, Miss Brontë?”

I admitted that it was. We walked on, talking in this companionable manner until we reached Oxenhope village, at which point we turned around and retraced our steps. When we returned to the parsonage, we had tea in the dining-room (papa feigned an illness, and did not join us.) Mr. Nicholls’s visit continued for nine more days, and every day, as we walked back and forth along the same snowy path, we spoke frankly about our lives, both past and present, carefully (so far) avoiding the future.

Mr. Nicholls shared amusing tales of his days at Trinity College, and talked with affection and good humour about his brother Alan, and of the scrapes and mischief they had got into as children—stories about pranks they had pulled on their younger cousins, and times they had skipped school to take long walks in the country-side with the family dogs, to go boating on the Shannon River, or fishing in the nearby streams.

“It was there that I learned to catch a trout by hand; I never used a rod or reel. What fun we used to have, tickling the slippery little devils, and sometimes flipping them out of the water at each other’s faces, just for fun.”

His stories made me laugh, and created a very different picture in my mind of the young Arthur Bell Nicholls, than that which had been there formerly. “I always imagined you as this stern, serious little boy, who followed all the rules and did everything right.”

“In truth I suppose I was. I was always the voice of dissension in these little escapades—I dearly loved my aunt and uncle, and didn’t wish to upset them—but that didn’t stop me from aiding and abetting my brother every now and again.”

I told him, in turn, of my own childish adventures with my brother and sisters. “In addition to endless reading and scribbling, one of our favourite pastimes was to act out our little stories. We would ramble across the moors, and pretend it was the Country of the Genii. The moors became our Arabia.” I nodded towards the frozen landscape beside us. “All that you see before you—to us it was a vast desert, endless plains of undulating sand under a burning sun and cloudless sky. The fog, we envisioned as a refreshing desert mist; and we always discovered an immense palace surrounded by palm trees, entirely encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, and illuminated with lamps too bright to look upon.”

“Straight out of
The Arabian Nights
and
Tales of the Genii,
eh?”

“Have you read them?”

“Of course. Hasn’t every child in Christendom? Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, suddenly pleased to discover that he had grown up with the same works. “I suppose I thought the
Tales
too frivolous for a future Church of England clergyman, and particularly for such a staunch devotee of Dr. Pusey’s
Tracts for the Times.
”

Catching the irony in my tone, Mr. Nicholls went quiet for a moment, then looked at me and said in a serious voice, “Perhaps it’s just as well that this topic came up now.”

“Perhaps it is. I
have
been meaning to speak to you about it.”

“I’m well aware that you don’t share all my religious preferences, Miss Brontë—that you hold a more liberal view.”

“I do not wish to criticise you over matters so deep-rooted and delicate of conscience and principle, Mr. Nicholls, but—if we were to consider a future together—would you be able to accept my own views as important to me?”

“I can and I do, Miss Brontë.”

“Would you be equally as able to welcome, with an open heart, certain friends of mine who share my beliefs?”

“Your friends’ beliefs are their own affair. I’ll honour and respect them, just as I hope they—and you—will honour and respect mine.”

“Would I be allowed to give free vent to my own opinions, however different from yours, without fear of censure?”

“Of course.”

“Would you agree to at least
listen
on occasion, and consider my view-point?”

He laughed. “I will. I promise.”

On our last day together, when we returned from the same snowy walk and were saying good-bye at the parsonage gate, Mr. Nicholls made yet another promise which brought us even closer to an understanding.

“I know, Miss Brontë, how much you love your father, and how deeply concerned you are for his welfare. I know as well that you would never leave him, and I want to set your mind at ease on that point. I’ve only taken a temporary curacy at present. I’ve not sought a living elsewhere, and I’ve refused those that have been offered to me, because I feared that you would not follow me there. Am I correct in this assumption?”

“You are, sir,” I replied softly, both surprised and greatly moved.

“I want to assure you that
if
we were to marry, Miss Brontë, I’d return to Haworth permanently, and I vow to do everything in my power to faithfully care for your father until the end of his days.”

I felt a rush of affection for him then. “Thank you, Mr. Nicholls. I realise that such a declaration cannot be easy, considering the unjust manner in which papa has treated you. It is a credit to your integrity and forbearance. I am also aware that a promise from you is not mere words: you will follow through, and this lifts a great weight from my mind.”

He frowned. “For all this to work, however—for me to return
to Haworth—your father must be willing to accept me not only as his possible, prospective son-in-law, but as his curate again.”

I nodded. “He is, as you know, a very stubborn old man. Once he makes up his mind, it is hard work to bring him round to another point of view.” I looked up at him then, with a wondering smile. “Mr. Nicholls, have you truly turned down a more lucrative living on my account?”

“Several, Miss Brontë and I’ll continue to do so, if you’ll but give me any hope that you might reconsider my proposal.”

“I
am
reconsidering it, sir, and I assure you, it is with a very different outlook than I formerly possessed.”

A hint of optimism darted through the cautious expression on his countenance. “I will hope for the best, then.”

I removed my gloved hand from my muff and held it out to him; he took it and held it fast between his own two hands.

“Thank you for coming, sir. I shall write again very soon.”

“And I’ll come back as soon as ever I can.” We stood thus for some moments, our eyes fixed upon each other. He let go of my hand with apparent reluctance, and we said good-bye.

D
iary, when I first began to write these pages a year ago, my life had been thrown into a maelstrom of turmoil and confusion, occasioned by Mr. Nicholls’s unexpected proposal of marriage. Over the past twelve months, I have sought the comfort of memory and pen to help me understand the past, in the hopes that it might help guide me into the future.

Now, I find that I can put off my decision no longer. My inner voice will not keep still. It cries: “
Can
I be a wife?” More importantly: “Can I be
his
wife—for all eternity?”

My cheeks grow warm as I pen these words; I am ashamed to admit it, diary, but I am a little disappointed that I do not feel the kind of passion for Mr. Nicholls that I have always imagined a heroine should feel for a hero. Where is the tense anticipation of the next treasured meeting, the bated breath, the flying into one another’s arms at first sight, the wildly beating heart and frantic meeting of lips? When Mr. Nicholls looks at me, when he touches my hand, I do not feel the thrill that I believe a lover’s look and touch ought to instill.

Yet, at the same time, I
have
come to feel a true esteem and
affection for Mr. Nicholls. He is a dear man. With all that I have learned during his recent ten-day visit, many of my doubts regarding our incompatibility have been assuaged. It means a great deal to me that he knew my brother and loved my sisters, and has promised to help care for my aging father. Is it not better to secure the fidelity of such a man, and to relieve a suffering and faithful heart, than to unfeelingly abandon one so truly attached, to pursue some vain, empty shadow?

I am grateful for Mr. Nicholls’s tender love to me. I believe it possible that I can learn to love him in time.

Providence in His goodness and wisdom have offered me this destiny; it must, then, be the best for me.

D
iary: it has been many months since I last wrote herein. Forgive me for the delay, but so much has occurred in the interval, that I have scarcely had a moment to breathe.

As it turns out, having
decided
to accept Mr. Nicholls’s proposal was only half the battle—or should I say, the journey—which lay ahead of me. For although my mind was made up, no lasting happiness could be achieved until my heart and soul had also been won; and that—well,
that
is the rest of the story. My tale would not be complete unless I were to go on and reveal everything that followed—even though certain parts of the story are of such a highly personal and intimate nature, that even now I blush to recall them.

For two months after Mr. Nicholls and I took that last snowy walk and I determined to accept his offer, I put all my efforts into convincing papa of my suitor’s many merits. I reminded him of the faithful service Mr. Nicholls had rendered him during his eight years in office, and compared his efforts to those of his successor, the despised Mr. de Renzy. I informed him that
Mr. Nicholls’s uncle had been a school-teacher; surely that meant that
some
members of his family were educated, and not worthy of his scorn. I told papa that if he took Mr. Nicholls back as his curate, approved of our marriage, and allowed us to live at the parsonage, he would be gaining a son-in-law whose added income could only prove beneficial to us all.

Perhaps it was this pecuniary stratagem which produced the required effect; perhaps it was the fact that Mr. de Renzy had so exacerbated papa’s nerves, that he now welcomed almost any substitute; perhaps it was from sheer exhaustion after listening to my arguments day in and day out; but for whatever reason, a miracle occurred: papa gave his consent to the marriage.

When Mr. Nicholls returned to Haworth on the 4th of April, papa’s former antipathy towards him had vanished as surely and completely as the newly-melted snow. On the second day of his visit, Mr. Nicholls, reacting to this new-found civility with nervous excitement, insisted that we walk back across the moors to the same river-bank where we had sat and talked together so congenially for the first time, nearly six years before.

Although early spring, it was yet very cold, and pockets of snow still clung in the hollows and dales along the mossy river-bank. There were no flowers yet, but the stream rushed with its usual force and fume, and the trees were studded with the promise of fresh, new leaves. When we reached the familiar spot which we had once inhabited, within the privacy of the surrounding hills, we stopped side by side to admire the spectacle.

“I love this place,” said Mr. Nicholls. “I discovered it not long after I came to Haworth. It is one of my favourite spots for contemplation.”

“It is one of mine, as well. I used to come here frequently with my brother and sisters when we were children.”

We fell silent. I knew why he had taken me here; I guessed what was coming; my heart pounded warily at the thought of it, but I was ready. He turned to face me, his gloved hands clasped
before him as he gazed down at me, affection in his eyes, and nervous anticipation in his tone.

“Miss Brontë: forgive me for speaking plainly, but more than a year has passed since I first spoke to you on this matter, and I don’t wish to waste another minute. You know my feelings: they remain unchanged. I love you. I always have, and I always will. May I renew the offer that I made to you so long ago, with the hope of a different response? Will you have me, Miss Brontë? Will you marry me?”

“I will.”

Joy lit up his countenance. “You will?”

“I will.” My pulse throbbed at the momentousness of the promise I had just made. He seemed equally overcome. We both stood frozen in the shock of the moment; now he stepped forward, closing the gap between us, and put his hand at the small of my back. Bending his head to mine, he kissed me: a brief, hesitant first kiss that necessitated the navigation around our noses and the avoidance of my spectacles; but it was also a gentle kiss, tender and true. “I love you, Charlotte,” said he softly. It was the first time he had ever called me by my Christian name.

I gazed up at him in fond silence, hoping my eyes would convey my sincere affection; I sensed his disappointment that I had not repeated his sentiment, but I could not say what my heart did not yet feel.

He took off his gloves then, and withdrew from his coat pocket a small box, which he opened and held out before me: it contained a delicate gold band enhanced by a spray of five pearls. “I bought this ring for you. I had to guess at the size. Will you wear it?”

“I would be honoured.” I removed the glove from my left hand, and he slipped the ring upon my tiny finger. Another miracle occurred—or perhaps my future husband was simply a more astute judge of such things than I could have guessed—but the ring was a perfect fit. “It is beautiful, Mr. Nicholls. Thank you.”

Bringing my bare hand up to his lips, he kissed it and said with quiet confidence, “No more
Mr. Nicholls.
I would have you call me
Arthur,
now.”

I could not help but smile. My two childhood heroes—the Duke of Wellington, and my imaginary Duke of Zamorna—had also both been Arthurs.

Miss Wooler had acted as a peacemaker between Ellen and myself, and my friend and I had ended our estrangement with a renewal of correspondence the previous month. When I wrote to Ellen now, informing her of my engagement, she replied with congratulations which I could only hope were heart-felt and sincere.

Considering how long and strenuously papa had fought against the idea of my marriage, I was astonished by how quickly he came round to a very different view, once his consent was given and the engagement became a
fait accompli.
Aside from an occasional disappointed sigh about Mr. Nicholls’s “humble beginnings,” papa’s illusions of ambition on my behalf seemed at last to have dissipated into disgruntled acceptance.

Now, both papa and Mr. Nicholls—or Arthur, as I tried to remind myself to call him—seemed anxious to have the matter settled, and pressed for an early wedding date. Papa gave Mr. de Renzy his notice; Arthur wrote to announce that he could leave his curacy at Kirk Smeaton on 11 June; and a date was fixed for the 29th of June.

The date seemed very soon; there was so much to accomplish before the wedding, and little more than two months in which to accomplish it. I went about my preparations calmly, with moderate expectations of happiness. At the beginning of May, I went to Brookroyd, where any lingering traces of awkwardness between Ellen and myself were swept away, as she helped me to choose my trousseau in two days of shopping at Leeds and Halifax.

I was determined to purchase nothing too expensive or extensive, and that my new bonnets and dresses should all be ca
pable of being put to good use after my wedding day. In the end, we selected fabric for two new gowns: one, a splendid mauve silk, and the other a plain barège
⁶⁷
with a little green spot in it. As to my wedding dress, nothing would satisfy Ellen but white, which I had been determined that I would not wear.

“White is the colour of night-shirts and chemises, and the frocks of dewy-eyed young girls,” said I. “I am far too old to be married in white.”

“You cannot be married in anything
but
white,” insisted Ellen, as we surveyed the fabrics displayed on the counter before us, “and you must have it made up in one of those lovely new French styles that I have seen in the fashion magazines, with beading at the bodice and clouds of white tulle.” Holding up a bolt of white silk against my chest, she said with a satisfied smile, “Oh! Charlotte! No colour has ever suited you so well.”

In my secret soul, I had to admit that I had always dreamt—if I ever married—of being attired in full, traditional bridal regalia. “I suppose I
could
wear white—but I will have none of your fancy new French styles.” After glancing at the price of the fabric, I quickly added, “And I would not think of silk; it is too expensive for a gown which will, in all probability, never be worn again. I will stick to muslin—plain book muslin, with only a tuck or two in front.”

Ellen frowned as she set down the bolt of silk. “You are very stubborn, Charlotte—but this is your wedding, so I shall not argue. Oh! Look at this lace! It will make an exquisite veil.”

“My veil shall be a simple square of tulle, and it shall cost no more than five shillings. If I must make a fool of myself, it shall be on an economical plan.”

I did indulge in one extravagance: for the chemises, night-shirt, and undergarments that I was to make myself, I purchased—for the first time in my life—several yards of white satin ribbon and lace for trimmings. “After all” (as Ellen in
sisted, with the most serious of expressions), “these garments will be
seen
by your husband.”

I left the fabric with the dressmaker at Halifax. A week after I returned to Haworth, Arthur came again to visit. For the first few days he was a bundle of nerves—worried, I think, that I might change my mind. When I reassured him that I would do no such thing—and I would be proud to be his wife—he became calmer, and offered to help make the arrangements for the wedding itself, kindly acquiescing to my wishes for a quiet ceremony.

“I fear I have become a sort of curiosity in the neighbourhood: the Brontë spinster who is marrying at long last. I dread the idea of arriving at the church to find a throng of gawking on-lookers.”

“I will do my best to ensure that does not happen,” promised Arthur. “Not a soul in Haworth outside ourselves, the rector, and the parish clerk will be aware of the day, if I can help it.”

We agreed that Ellen should be my bridesmaid, and that our only guests would be Miss Wooler and Mr. and Mrs. Grant. (Mrs. Gaskell, aware of Mr. Nicholls’s antipathy to Dissenters, chose not to attend.) As papa did not wish to conduct the service, Arthur arranged with his friend the young Reverend Sutcliffe Sowden—who had also been a good friend of Branwell’s—to officiate. In lieu of wedding invitations, we sent out announcements. My list was small, comprising only eighteen names; to my amusement, however, there was no end to the string of parson friends to whom Mr. Nicholls wished to send cards. I was required to double my order at the printers’, and to request sixty envelopes.

In the final month before the wedding, I sewed madly against time, and undertook the remodelling of the little storage room behind the dining-room, to convert it into a study for Mr. Nicholls. The workers closed up an outside doorway, laid a new floor, added a fire-place and refinished the walls; I made up a
set of new green and white curtains that exactly suited the new wallpaper.

Before I knew it, June had slipped past, the study was finished, and my trousseau was complete. The strain occasioned by the alterations to the house and my own sleepless apprehension in the weeks preceding the event, conspired to weaken my constitution; just before the wedding, I came down with the first symptoms of a cold. My excitement, however, served to banish any thought of threatening illness from my mind. It was with the greatest joy that I received Ellen and Miss Wooler, who (according to the thoughtful and considerate arrangements which Mr. Nicholls had made for them) arrived at the parsonage the day before the wedding by the same train and cab.

The last day passed in a flurry of final arrangements. With my friends’ help, I finished packing my trunk, and nailed on the card with the direction of the first stop on our honeymoon tour: an inn in northern Wales. After a brief visit there, we planned to take a steamship to Arthur’s native Ireland for a month-long tour, where I was to meet his family.

Mr. Nicholls joined us for supper, pale-faced and in a state of nervous anxiety equal to my own. In order to call as little attention to the morrow’s nuptials as possible, and because we were to depart on the first leg of our honeymoon that same day, he had arranged for the wedding to take place at the earliest allowable hour: 8:00 a.m.

Everything seemed to be going according to plan. When we concluded evening prayers, however, papa was beset by a sudden coughing fit, which left him weak and tired. To my dismay, he said: “I feel unwell. I fear I have caught your cold, Charlotte. I think it best if I do not attend the ceremony tomorrow.”

Mr. Nicholls blanched and said in consternation, “Surely, Mr. Brontë, you cannot mean to miss your daughter’s wedding?”

Papa coloured a little and averted his gaze. “I’m sorry, but it cannot be helped.”

“If you do not attend, papa,” said I, greatly disappointed, “who will give me away?”

“I’m certain you can find a way to manage without me.”

Despite the coughing fit, I did not believe papa was truly ill; such a complaint had not, in the past, prevented him from conducting business as usual in the parish. In viewing the expression on his face (a sort of panic, which he struggled in vain to hide), I ascertained what his pride could not bring him to say: that agitation over this formal separation from his last surviving child, was still more than he could bear to see—or sanction—first-hand.

I heaved a sigh, but I knew better than to try to argue with my father in such a mood. Martha, Tabby, Ellen, and Miss Wooler all looked as discomfited as I.

“Let us consult the prayer book,” suggested Arthur. “Perhaps there is a provision for such a situation, and a substitute would be allowed.”

We applied to the book in question; Mr. Nicholls found the requisite page; with a triumphant nod, he cried, “Aha! We are in luck. It states that, in the event that a parent or guardian is not available, it is perfectly acceptable for a bride to be given away by a friend.”

The room fell briefly silent. Ellen said: “I would be glad to perform the service—but it does not seem right, Charlotte. I am younger than you. A bride should be given away by some one closer to her parent’s age, do not you think?”

I nodded in some distress. Miss Wooler rose to the occasion.

“I would be honoured to give you away,” offered that good lady, “if it would be amenable to you.”