The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (43 page)

The hotel clerk, on receiving it, said, “Very good, Mrs. Nicholls. I’ll see to it that it gets posted, ma’am.”

It was the first time that I had been addressed by a stranger as “Mrs. Nicholls,” and the appellation came as a little shock to the senses. At supper, Arthur, concerned that my cold should not become worse, made sure that we were positioned at the table closest to the hearth. As we listened to the howl of the wind and the hammering of the rain on the roof-top and window-panes, we laughingly remarked that the sounds were pleasantly reminiscent of home.

“To-morrow, weather permitting, we’ll head along the coast to Bangor,” said Arthur. “I’ve never stayed long enough in the region to see the scenery, and I’ve heard it’s magnificent.”

“I look forward to seeing it together.”

He smiled, highly pleased. Our meal of roast fowl was promptly served. The food was of high quality, the fire cheerful, the staff attentive, and our conversation amiable. I could not help but notice, however, a small change in my husband, which had begun with our arrival at the inn. Despite his attempts to disguise it, there was a return of the slight awkwardness of manner which had so marked his behaviour in the months preceding his proposal, and in the early days of our courtship.

As to the
cause
of his change in demeanour, I could not be certain—but I sensed it might be occasioned by the same fluttering of stomach and nervous apprehension which had begun to infiltrate my own sense of well-being at the very same time—brought on by thoughts of the night which lay before us:
our wedding night.

Arthur and I had chastely kissed several times in the past three months; we had held hands; but that was all. And
that,
I knew, was about to change. I assumed that Arthur knew more about these things than I. He was a
man,
after all, and
Irish.
I was not afraid; but as I had admitted to Ellen, I was anxious,
expectant, a little shy (which Ellen’s mother had sternly warned against!), and more than a little excited.

We ascended the stairs after supper in silence. When we reached the door to our chamber, my heart began to pound in anticipation. What would happen next? Would Arthur lift me in his arms, and carry me across the threshold? Would he hurry me inside, slam the door, and draw me immediately into his fervent embrace?

No.

Quietly, Arthur unlocked the door. He paused. In a gentle voice, with averted gaze, he murmured: “Shall I come in with you? Or—perhaps you would prefer to prepare for bed alone?”

I hesitated, speechless with shock and disappointment. I had not anticipated this eventuality. What was the proper reply?

My husband—apparently perceiving my dismay—quickly added: “Do not distress yourself. I’ll go downstairs for a few minutes, and I’ll knock when I return.”

No!
I wanted to cry.
Do not go!
But in my shyness, I could not produce the syllables.

“Be sure to lock the door,” said he, as he handed me the key; and he was gone.

With a pang of confused regret, I entered our chamber and locked the door as bidden. Mortified tears sprang into my eyes. I had been nervous, yes; I had been devoid of appetite at supper; but all that had sprung from excited anticipation. Being left to undress alone was certainly
not
the manner in which I had expected to begin my wedding night.

If I was honest with myself, I had hoped (a little) that my new husband, however gentlemanly he had been to date, would turn into something of a rake after the nuptials had been performed and privacy achieved. In my imagination, I had seen him overcome with passion as he impatiently took off—or ripped off—my clothes; or at the very least,
he would be present to
help remove said garments himself, one article at a time. Surely that is how the passionate Mr. Rochester—a man so very experienced in
unhooking bodices and unlacing corsets—would have deflowered his Jane!

Clearly, however—I realised with a sigh—that was not to be my lot. Arthur Bell Nicholls was too polite and too proper a man to succumb to—as Ellen had put it—any ravishing.

I glanced about the room, truly taking it in for the first time. It was simple, but clean and tasteful: a comfortable-looking four-poster bed stood against one wall; a mahogany wardrobe rested against the other; there was a single chair and two small tables: one which held a ewer and a basin, the other a candle and a small mirror. The drapes were drawn. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, illuminating the room with its flickering glow.

From somewhere down the hall, I heard a clock strike nine. I lit the candle, then began to undress with haste, so as not to be caught in a state of deshabille when my husband returned. I hung my dress in the wardrobe, stowed my undergarments in my trunk, washed quickly, and slipped into my long-sleeved white cotton night-shirt, which I had modestly fashioned with a ribbon tie at the neck, and a thin strip of lace adorning both collar and cuffs.

No sooner had I tied the ribbon at my throat than I heard approaching footsteps in the hall, and a gentle rap at the door. Trembling, and with racing heart, I went to the door and opened it.

Arthur glanced at me as he entered; the colour rose to his cheeks and he nodded in greeting, averting his eyes. Quickly and silently he removed his coat, emptied the contents of his pockets on a table, and then sat down on the bed to remove his shoes. Oh! I thought, irritation spiralling through me as I watched him. Was this the most that I could expect? Was there not an ounce of romance in this man’s body? I was his wife! I was standing before him, entirely naked beneath my night-shirt! Yet he was halfway across the room, unlacing his shoes! Could he not see that I was waiting, wondering, hoping—that I longed for a touch—a kiss—an embrace—or at the very least, some small token of
verbal
affection?

The silence was unendurable. I felt compelled to break it.

“It is—a nice room,” I blurted. The moment the words left my lips, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and I winced inwardly. Was that the best I could do? At this moment, of all moments, did I really wish to discuss the merits of our accommodations?

“It is,” replied he, as he removed his socks. “I particularly requested one of the larger chambers. I wanted it to be nice for you.”

“It
is
nice. Thank you,” I replied, realising with renewed embarrassment that we had now, for the third time in the space of a minute, called the room “nice.”

Grabbing my brush (with annoyance), I sat myself down at the little table before the looking-glass, where I methodically began to remove the pins from my hair. I had known from the start that my husband was not a poetical man; I suppose, I thought grimly, I had been naive to expect romance of any sort.

When I had unfastened the last pin, and the full weight of my long hair cascaded about my shoulders, I heard Arthur’s footsteps approach. In the small mirror before me, I saw his reflection: he now stood immediately behind me, bare-chested to the waist, revealing his well-built and masculine chest, which caused a sudden and unexpected fluttering within my own.

His voice, when he spoke, was softer and deeper than I had heard in a long while. “May I have the honour of brushing your hair?”

The question took me by complete surprise. Arthur could not have known it, but the brushing of my hair had always been one of my fondest pleasures, a cherished nightly ritual that I had greatly missed in the five years since my sister Anne had passed away. “Do you—know how?” I asked in my confusion—a ridiculous question.

“I do.”

I handed him the brush.

“Will you come to the bed?” said he. “It will be easier if we both can sit.”

I rose; I removed my spectacles and took his offered hand;
I allowed him to lead me to the bed, where I sat down beside him, my back turned to him. He began, with measured, steady strokes, to brush my long locks. Anne, in years past, had been sweetly attentive when she rendered this service; Ellen ditto; but their ministrations—as I soon discovered—had been merely perfunctory, when compared to the tenderness and dexterity of the man who now performed it.

My head tingled as the brush bristles grazed against my scalp; again and again, I felt my husband’s finger-tips gently caress the nape of my neck, as he lifted up my tresses from therein and pulled the instrument through my hair with long, luxurious strokes. Every touch of his fingers against my skin sent an unexpected, electric throb coursing through my body.

“I take it,” I said breathlessly, “that you have brushed hair before?”

“When I was a boy, my mother and then my aunt used to allow me to perform this duty. I admit, I had only the most innocent and dutiful of motives then.” In a low and husky tone, he added at my ear, “I cannot tell you how many hundreds of times I’ve played out this moment in my mind with you, Charlotte, since the day we met.”

My pulse was, of a sudden, pounding so loudly in my ears that I could no longer speak. It was as if, in the smooth and rhythmic motions of finger-tips and brush, he were intimately touching every single inch of my body. My eyes fell closed; my head fell slightly back; all my tension seeped away, like a delicious, liquid glow pouring through a sieve.
This,
I remember thinking (when I could think at all)
must be what an opiate feels like.

I felt him sweep my hair up above my neck once more; a pause; and then the welcome pressure of his lips, warm and caressing, against the side of my neck. A jolt of pleasure shivered through me; now his lips planted another kiss, and another, working their way forward towards the base of my throat.

I gasped aloud. He now reached around, untied the ribbon at my collar, and pulled open my night-shirt at my throat. His
finger-tips softly caressed my exposed skin along the length of my collar-bone, first one side, then the other; now he ventured a few inches lower, beneath the fabric, to caress the upper reaches of my breasts, and the cleft that divided them. I gasped again.

Taking me by the shoulders, he turned me to face him on the bed. Now he bent his head, gently applying his lips to every spot that had been formerly touched by fingers. With each kiss against my bare flesh, I heard myself utter a little moan. My pulse pounded; my body was on fire. I had never known a sensation such as this; I had never, even in my wildest dreams,
envisioned
such a touch, or such a feeling. All at once I craved, more than anything I had ever craved in my life, the pressure of his mouth against my own; and suddenly it was there: his lips were on my lips, seeking, sharing, communing, in a long and loving kiss.

When the kiss ended, I opened my eyes to find his just an inch away, gazing at me with burning intensity and a desire that matched my own.

“Oh!” I cried, as I wrapped my arms around my husband and pulled his lips to mine once more.

I awoke with the first rays of dawn, to find myself in my sleeping lover’s embrace, my cheek warmly nestled against his chest. Memory stirred; as I recalled the events of the night before, a flush of pleasure overcame me, and I could not help but smile.

“Good morning,” a deep voice intoned against my hair, as strong arms wrapped around me.

“Good morning,” was my whispered reply.

“Did you sleep well?”

“I did. When I slept at all.”

I heard and felt his rumbling laugh. He shifted; we resettled to face each other, smiling into each other’s eyes, heads cradled by the same pillow. His finger-tips traced the length of my cheek. “What are you thinking?” he inquired softly.

“I was thinking that the world seems to me a very different place this morning, than it did yesterday.”

He kissed me, and smiled.

“Arthur,” I said shyly.

“Yes, my love?”

“Last night, was I—did I—?” I could not bring myself to finish the thought.

He blushed. “You were lovely. You
are
lovely. In any case, I believe there is no right or wrong in this kind of thing.”

“You believe—?”

He studied me across the pillow. “I can see there’s something you wish to ask me. Go ahead, wife. Out with it.”

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks now. “Well, I suppose I was wondering—did you ever—was there ever—”

“There has only been one other woman in my life, in the way that you mean—or for that matter, in any way at all. It was a long time ago, and of course, things never progressed anywhere near this far. Is that what you wished to know?”

I nodded. A little thrill ran through me. I was gratified to think that I had been Arthur’s first, just as he had been mine. “May I inquire as to who she was?”

He kissed me, a bemused twinkle in his eyes. “Do you really wish to discuss
that
—now?”

“I am only curious.”

His hand ran up and down the length of my arm, causing my flesh to tingle. “She was a school-teacher’s daughter. I was seventeen years old. For six months, I lost my head and my heart—until she summarily broke it, by running off with a peddler.”

“A peddler?”

“He sold household supplies, as I recall, off the back of a cart. Whether it was the pots and pans that attracted her, or the promise of travel and adventure, I never knew; but one day I looked up and she was gone.”

There was such good humour in his eyes as he spoke, that I could not hold back a smile. “Did you love her?”

“I thought I did at the time. But what does any one know at seventeen? It certainly made me more cautious, from that day forward, about to whom I was willing to give my heart.” He
caught my hand in his, brought it up to his lips, and kissed it. “When I look back at the episode now, I can only cringe, realising how unsuited we were to one another. I thank my lucky stars that she broke it off; otherwise I never would have left Banagher, or gone to university, or on to England.”

“I am grateful, too,” said I, adding in wonder: “Was she really the only one, Arthur, in all these years?”

“She was.”

“And since you came to Haworth—”

He pulled me to him, and as our bodies locked together in his warm embrace, I realised that he wanted me again. “Since the day we met,” said he, his tone deep and husky as his gaze bore into mine, “I’ve had eyes for no other woman but you, my love.” Then his mouth closed on mine, and all conversation ceased.