The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (45 page)

“I just learned that two of my cousins will be joining us,” said Arthur.

He had no sooner spoken when the first of said cousins—Joseph Bell, handsome, dark-haired, and twenty-three years old—bounded in the front door and presented himself with a beguiling smile and a thick Irish brogue. “Top of the mornin’ to you, one and all. Arthur! How are you, old man?”

The cousins warmly embraced; it was a unique pleasure for me to witness such a display of physical affection between men. “Charlotte,” said Arthur, as both men turned to me, “may I present my cousin Joseph.”

“Welcome, cousin Charlotte,” said Joseph, bowing low before me with a grand flourish. “It is both an honour and a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you, sir,” I replied, impressed by his refined English manners.

“Your reputation precedes you,” continued Joseph with enthusiasm. “I loved
Jane Eyre
. A truly remarkable book.”

“Thank you,” returned I, with a little blush, “but it is really just a simple tale.”

“A simple tale?” said he to Arthur, with a laugh. “I see your wife is modest as well as brilliant. You have got yourself quite a catch, cousin.” (Back to me now,
sotto voce
:) “And
you
, Mrs. Nicholls, have done very well for yourself, besides. You’ll never find a better man than my cousin Arthur—even if he is a bit too stern and crotchety at times.”

“Joseph is the most brilliant student at Trinity College,” explained Arthur proudly. “Alan tells me he just gained three premiums as prizes.”
⁶⁸

“That should tell you something about the quality of the competition,” added Joseph with another laugh.

Having been led by papa and Ellen to believe that Arthur’s family were illiterate, uneducated, wild Irish barbarians who lived in squalor, and by Arthur himself to expect only “country-folk,” I had never expected to find a Trinity student among them—much less one so charming and highly honoured. I barely had time to assimilate this astonishing new personage, when another equally disarming cousin appeared at the foot of the stairs and entered the room. She was twenty-four years old, and just as handsome and well-mannered as her younger brother; a true Celt in appearance, with her dark curly hair simply but fashionably arranged.

“You must be Charlotte,” exclaimed she in a sweet but lively voice, as she stopped before me and curtseyed. “I’m Mary
Anna.” She walked with a slight limp, which, I learned, was the result of a riding accident as a child; but as she and every one else seemed completely unconscious of it—and it in no way hampered her energy or her ability to get around—I soon forgot all about it.

Mary Anna darted an adoring look at Arthur, then sat beside me on the sofa and took one of my hands in hers. “Arthur has been my favourite cousin ever since I was a little girl. When he wrote to say he was getting married and bringing over his bride, I said, ‘I can’t wait two entire days for them to reach Banagher! I must go to Dublin myself!’ I wanted a chance to know you before the rest of the clan, for there are so many Bells, I fear you’ll become sick to death of us in no time and long to escape.”

“I am certain that will not happen,” said I with a smile, “but I am very glad you came, Mary Anna, and grateful for some female company. From what I see, there are entirely too many men on this honeymoon tour.”

Every one laughed at that. This feeling of goodwill continued for the rest of the day—indeed, for the next two days—during which time our little party of five rode over a great part of the city, visiting many of the main sites. Arthur’s brother and cousins, on further acquaintance, proved themselves to be so kind, courteous, well learned, and intelligent, that I felt immediately welcome and at home.

Arthur continued to be as thoughtful and solicitous of my needs as always, insisting that we not see too much lest I become overtired and further aggravate my cold; yet, there was an unspoken distance between us—an aloofness on his part of which, I believe, only I was aware—and a complete withdrawal from physical intimacy of any kind, which occasioned me much pain. Outwardly, he kept up an enthusiastic appearance, and seemed keen to share with me his old haunts at the university he’d attended.

I was particularly impressed by the ornate Venetian Gothic Museum, and the Trinity College library—a noble building in
the classical style. As we left, I said wistfully, “If only these hallowed halls of learning could be opened to womankind. There is so much to learn. How thrilling it would be, to attend such a university!”

“Had you been allowed to go to university, Charlotte,” said Arthur, as he held out his arm to me, “I believe you could have succeeded in any profession you liked. You are more literate, talented, and clever in your sleep than most men are in their best waking hour, and you have already achieved more than most men achieve in a lifetime.”

There was a hint of his old sparkle and admiration as he spoke, and for a moment my heart leapt with hope. Perhaps, I thought, his wounded pride was recovering, and we could regain the closeness and warm affection we had shared before that terrible moment on board ship. But as I thanked him with quiet gratitude, he glanced away, his smile vanished, and his hard-edged mask fell back in place.

On Friday, the 7th of July, we said good-bye to Mrs. Alan Nicholls and the children, and Alan escorted the rest of our party by rail to the Bell family home at Banagher. Fatigue, excitement, and my cold had by this time taken their toll; I was not feeling at all well, and my cough had become very bad.

At Birr Station (I found Birr to be a charming old market town and former garrison, dating, I was told, to the 1620s) we were met by a coach, which I assumed had been hired for the occasion. This notion was dispelled when Arthur proudly introduced me to the driver, an elderly man who had been in the employ of the Bell family for more than thirty years, and as such had known Arthur since he was a boy. The old man (for whom Arthur held an undisguised and mutual respect and affection) graciously bowed and doffed his hat, his crinkly face lighting up with a smile. “Welcome, ma’am. ’Tis a great honour to meet our dear Arthur’s wife.”

I was surprised indeed to discover that the Bells had kept a carriage and driver for more than thirty years—a luxury my
family had never been able to afford—but perhaps, I thought, such things were less expensive in Ireland than they were in England. We drove seven miles through idyllic, verdant country-side, arriving in late afternoon at Banagher, King’s County’s most westerly town, beautifully situated on the Shannon River.

“My goodness!” I exclaimed, as our carriage rumbled up the single, inclined street from the Shannon Bridge to the church, passing closely packed, eighteenth-century stone houses on either side. “This village is very much like Haworth.”

“Indeed,” replied Arthur. “I have often made the comparison. Perhaps that is why I felt so instantly at home at Haworth when I first moved there.”

We had proceeded a quarter mile up the high road past the church, through a lovely wooded area, when Mary Anna said, “A few minutes more, and you will be able to see Cuba House.”

“Cuba House?” said I. “What is that?”

“Why—our family home,” responded Mary Anna.

“What an unusual name. How did it come to be called Cuba House?”

“A local man, George Fraser, was governor of Cuba more than a hundred years ago,” explained Alan, “and made his fortune on that island, growing sugar. He came back and built the house. Now the Avenue and the Royal School are also called Cuba, in his honour.”

“The Royal School?” I repeated. “What is that?”

“The school was founded by Royal Charter in 1638 by Charles I,” replied Joseph. “Our father was headmaster for many years, and since he died my brother James has been filling his shoes. Of course it will be nice and quiet now, with all the students gone on holiday.” On seeing my startled expression, he added, “But surely Arthur has told you all this?”

I glanced at Arthur, who was looking out the window, a gentle blush crossing his countenance. “No. Arthur told me your father was a clergyman and a school-teacher. I assumed he had taught at a small local school, not a prestigious one founded by Royal decree—and I had no idea he had been headmaster.”

Joseph laughed, and punched Arthur playfully in the arm. “Holding out on your own wife, were you, cousin? Or were you just being modest?”

“Uncle Bell
was
a clergyman and a teacher, as well as a headmaster,” insisted Arthur quietly.

“He also held a Doctor of Laws from Glasgow University,” added Alan. “He was quite a brilliant man.”

“Here we are now,” announced Mary Anna.

The carriage halted before a pair of imposing iron gates; the gates were opened; we drove in; with astonishment, I gained my first glimpse of the Bells’ home.

I had expected a humble cottage or “country house,” as Arthur had so casually referred to it. Instead, the edifice before me—set back from the high road by a wide, grassy field, surrounded by finely wooded grounds, and approached by a grand avenue of lime trees—was the epitome of a gentleman’s country-seat. The house itself was immense and built of brick and stone, with a mansard roof, pedimented portals, and a balustrade terrace. A row of lower, brick-and-stone school buildings fanned out from behind it and to the right side.

“Oh!” I cried, unable to contain my amazement and delight. “It is so large, and so beautiful! Arthur: is this truly your home?”

“It is not
mine,
” replied Arthur, but I could see that he was beaming with pride. “It is only where I grew up.”

“It is not really any of ours,” admitted Joseph. “The house is the headmaster’s lodgings. We have been fortunate enough to live here for many decades, first because of my father’s tenure, and now because of our brother James.”

“My family occupies Haworth parsonage under similar circumstances,” said I, “so I fully understand; but oh! It is nothing like this. What a magnificent home!”

“The Bells also own other, smaller houses,” interjected Alan. “My uncle bought up a great deal of land in the surrounding area, which they still let and farm.”

“Papa was twelve years older than mama,” added Mary Anna. “People used to tease her that she married an old man for
his money, but it was love—true love. She worshipped him until the day he died.”

As we pulled up before the entrance and descended from the coach, a great many people—family and servants alike, as well as four highly spirited dogs of various shapes and sizes—spilled out from the front door of the great house into the drive. Arthur and I were welcomed and introductions were made amidst much exclaiming, hugging, and kissing.

Alan Bell, the eldest son at thirty, was a clergyman; James Bell, twenty-eight, was headmaster of the school; and Arthur Bell, twenty-six, hoped to become a surgeon; all were obviously college-educated, and appeared to be true gentlemen by nature and cultivation. Even the youngest son, William, who was just fifteen, was a charming lad who would surely follow in his brothers’ footsteps. The two married daughters, I was given to understand, could not join us; but Harriette Lucinda Bell, aged twenty, was present—a very pretty girl with manners as amiable and pleasing as those of her sister Mary Anna. So many new people were presented to me at the same time that I was quite overwhelmed, but I sensed at once that Arthur’s cousins were all intelligent, kind, and highly-cultured people, and that I was going to like them very much.

Reigning over this happy, vivacious brood was Mrs. Harriette Bell, Dr. Bell’s widow, and the aunt and “adoptive mother” of Arthur and Alan Nicholls.

“You cannot imagine how much I have looked forward to this moment,” said Mrs. Bell, as she graciously held out her hands to me. A strikingly handsome woman with stylishly coiffed dark hair, and attired in a deep blue silk dress in the latest fashion, she carried herself with the ease and grace of an English matron: all kindness and good-natured refinement. Her accent, surprisingly, also sounded more English than Irish. “I have been worrying the servants for days, hoping to arrange everything just so for your arrival. We have put you in the green room, Arthur, on the ground floor—it has a very fine fire-place, and I think the best view. I hope you will find it to your liking.”

“It will suit us perfectly. Thank you, aunt,” said Arthur, kissing her, as we issued inside. The large, high-ceilinged entry way was paved in marble; I could see into the adjoining dining-room, which was lofty and spacious. In short order, an elegant English tea was served in the grand drawing-room, which was panelled in oak, and handsomely and commodiously furnished. Every one sat down on the assortment of chairs and sofas and began eating, drinking, and chatting gaily.

As I sipped my tea, gazing at the splendid house and all the new faces about me, everything—and every one—so exceeded even my wildest imaginations, that it was almost too much to take in. I had heard so much about Irish negligence, yet I had seen none of it since I arrived in that country; and all I saw before me was the highest order of English refinement and repose.

As I listened, I learned bits and pieces of information about the Bells: that Mrs. Bell and her daughters all played the piano and were avid needlewomen and keen gardeners; that every one in the family read widely; and that all passionately loved animals.

“We must have had at least thirty dogs in this household over the years,” said Mrs. Bell as she set down her tea-cup, “but far and away, the best was my dear little Fairy.” I saw every one’s eyes roll as Mrs. Bell continued wistfully, “Just a wee ball of fluff he was, entirely devoted to me—and so happy to see me when I returned from my honeymoon, that—”

“—the poor little thing died of absolute joy,” finished the entire assembly
en masse,
followed by a collective laugh.

“If you had known my little Fairy,” insisted Mrs. Bell with dignity, “you would not laugh.”

A round of dialogue ensued in which every one, with affection and enthusiasm, described the attributes of their favourite pet. When it was my turn, I talked about our own dear Flossy. Arthur maintained that he had been most fond of a large brown dog of uncertain breed that he had found when he was ten years old, and had been allowed to keep as his very own. All of this was fascinating to me, and illuminated the animal-loving side to my husband that I had always admired.