We Wove a Web
in Childhood

By Ruth Thomas

© Jennifer Knuckles, 2012

Published by Titania Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, adapted, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.

The rights of Jennifer Knuckles to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-9574421-1-5 (epub)
ISBN 978-0-9574421-0-8 (mobi)

Cover photograph by Jayne Herbert
www.Jayne-Herbert.co.uk

Prepared by:

York Publishing Services Ltd
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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter One 1828 - 1832

“Branwell is lucky he is a boy, and does not have to waste his time with sewing” grumbled Emily, who kept casting longing looks out of the window across to Haworth and Keighley moors. They were seated upstairs in their aunt’s prettily appointed apartment, which was where she taught the girls sewing - plain work at first, and how to insert pin tucks into the bodice of a muslin blouse. When they grew more skilled she taught them to frill, and embroider dainty cambric handkerchiefs.

“But Branwell has to learn Latin and Greek with Papa which must be just as boring” returned Anne, who was the youngest and possessed a placid easygoing disposition. She was content to sit patiently on a footstool at her aunt’s feet and seldom questioned what she was asked to do, but bent her head silently to the task at hand. Charlotte and Anne applied themselves diligently, and could now crochet imitation guipure lace unlike Emily, who was still embroidering samplers.

“I want to go outside” protested Emily “Besides, it’s so stuffy in here” It pleased their aunt to have the fire lit at all times - a luxury she had insisted upon when she had arrived from Penzance to nurse their mother on her sick bed. Mrs. Bronte had died in 1821 aged 39 when Charlotte was only 5, and their aunt Elizabeth Branwell had offered to remain at the parsonage as housekeeper “for the sake of the poor motherless children”

“The climate is very mild in Penzance, you know” she had told their father, wrapping her merino shawl about her shoulders “And I feel the cold keenly. I should hate to catch my death and follow my poor dear sister to an early grave” Grateful for his sister-in-law’s generous offer to superintend the affairs of his household, their father had raised no objections. When the Reverend Patrick Bronte had taken on the incumbency of Haworth in 1820, he had at first been viewed with suspicion, but had thrown himself wholeheartedly and passionately into his new role. Unstinting in his exertions on behalf of his parishioners, he had gradually won the respect of even the most recalcitrant members of his congregation. The untimely death of his wife Maria a year after they had settled into the vicarage had further elicited the sympathy of the villagers, who pitied the widower left with six small children to care for.

“Besides, you never know when this sewing might come in useful” remarked Charlotte, pragmatic as always. “Aunt says we will probably have to earn our own living, as Papa is not rich enough to support us when we are grown”

“Then I will disguise myself as a boy and run away to sea. I may become a pirate” said Emily, knitting her brows together.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Emily” giggled Anne “Sailors are rough. And you are much too tender-hearted to kill any living creature” She didn’t voice what they were all thinking: at least Charlotte and her younger sister Emily didn’t have to attend the school for clergymen’s daughters at any more. It was three years since their father had fetched them home from Cowan Bridge, and since their elder sisters Maria and Liz had died of consumption in 1825. Charlotte now winced at the recollection. At 12, she was now as old as Maria had been when they laid her poor body to rest. For her older sisters it had been too late for their father to save them. He had not known of the conditions which prevailed at the damp and draughty schoolhouse: the relentless cold and hunger, the two mile drudge from the school to an unheated church on a Sunday, often in freezing rain and always bitterly cold in winter. The scanty food, prepared by a lazy slattern who utilised any old scraps of gristle, rancid fat and stale crusts of bread she could lay her hands on, had been inedible. In the mornings the milk had been sour, the porridge blackened and burnt. Many of them were half-starved, quite unable to eat the food, and things had gone from bad to worse. There was foul pestilence in the air and there had been an outbreak of fever, made worse by the unwholesome damp. In the end more than half the pupils - 45 of the 80 girls – had fallen sick of typhus fever. When news reached Patrick of Maria’s illness he took them out of school, only for both girls to die at home shortly afterwards, Maria aged 11, and Liz aged 10. Fearing for his other two young daughters, Charlotte and Emily had been fetched home when Charlotte was 9 and Emily only 7.

Aunt Elizabeth poked her head through the door.

“I have here some magazines, dears. And if you’ve finished your sewing you can read a few stories before tea-time” Their aunt subscribed to various Methodist magazines which were full of lurid tales of ghouls and vampires, and ghostly apparitions. “Emily, you’ve made a dog’s dinner of that blouse. Look, there’s a drop of blood where you’ve pricked your finger” Aunt Elizabeth sighed heavily “I’m sure you could learn to pink and point as prettily as your sisters, if you would but apply yourself” She picked up a gold snuff box – one of the few personal possessions she had brought with her from her home in Penzance - and took a pinch.

Their routine seldom varied. After morning prayers and breakfast, they received instruction from their father in Geography, History, Literacy, and Mathematics; then they all took a walk before dinner, which was followed by sewing lessons for the girls - then afternoon tea in the parlour, after which they were allowed to do as they pleased. They assembled for Evening prayers at 8pm in their father’s study and by 9pm the entire household retired for the night. This included Tabitha Ackroyd, a middle-aged widow who had come to live at the parsonage two years ago, and who was now a permanent fixture.

The best part of the day was when they were allowed outdoors to play. Probably as a consequence of losing his wife and two eldest daughters, Patrick had become fanatical about matters of health - encouraging his children to ramble across the moors where the air was fresh and pure - and Thomas Graham’s Modern Domestic Medicine was routinely consulted for remedies against colds and other ailments. Their father complained loud and often to the Board Of Health about the household effluvium from the privies and midden-steads which ran openly down the gutters of streets in the village. Improved sanitary arrangements would go some way to alleviating the fevers and ill health that plagued the village, he maintained.

Aunt Elizabeth poured the tea, whilst their father quizzed them about what they had been reading. The family took three newspapers, the Tory Leeds Intelligencer, the Whig Leeds Mercury, and John Bull, which the two older children read avidly, imparting the more tantalizing news snippets to Emily and Anne.

“It says in the Leeds Mercury that the Luddites are active again” said Charlotte.

“And who are the Luddites?” enquired Patrick, curious to know how much his children understood of what they read in the papers.

“Bad men with muskets” replied Emily promptly. “That’s why you have a pistol in the house, Papa”

“They smash machinery” added Branwell.

“It is true that unemployed weavers destroy power looms” said Patrick “And although I do not condone their actions, there is a reason why men might behave so, when driven to desperation” He explained how the home-based cottage industries such as wool-combing and hand-loom weaving were being replaced by more efficient machinery in the mills, throwing men out of work. “Now, ever since the Corn Laws were introduced, the mill-owners have been able to keep the price of wheat artificially high, so that when there is a bad harvest the poor cannot afford to buy bread. As bread is a food staple, the Corn Laws cause much hardship and privation” Anne and Emily tried to look interested but their father had already lost their attention, which was instead taken up by the milk pudding which Tabby had placed on the table.

“If the government doesn’t repeal the Corn Laws they might have another Battle of Peterloo on their hands” continued Patrick. The children knew all about this. Only the previous year Napoleon had died a prisoner on St. Helena, and it was known that Jacobin sympathisers had been meeting in secret ever since the French revolution in 1812. In the summer of 1819, following a severe winter with bad harvests, high unemployment and slack trade, weeks of popular unrest and agitation for reform had culminated in the so-called “Battle of Peterloo” in Manchester. Fearing an insurrection, the Government had clamped down brutally on all forms of radicalism such as meetings, and the printing of seditious pamphlets. Anne still looked confused, so Emily explained for her benefit.

“Tabby peels potatoes for our dinner so we don’t get hungry, and if the government peels the corn laws the poor won’t starve, so they should go ahead and peel them now” Patrick smiled and patted Emily on the head.

“Is it not wrong to smash the machinery of mill-owners and put them out of business?” enquired his sister-in-law, as she sliced the cake.

“It is wrong and I deplore such conduct, but it is a grievous sin to take a human life and to arrogate God’s judgement to oneself. I would not send some poor wretch to the gallows merely for the commission of a crime against property” Their aunt found it difficult to understand where Patrick’s sympathies lay: as an upholder of the law and a staunch Tory he preached against the Luddites, which made him unpopular with the mill workers, and for this reason he always carried a loaded pistol about his person on his solitary Moorland rambles. But on one occasion when the workers were on strike, he thought their grievance a just one and when the chief culprits were brought to account he argued for leniency, which had made him unpopular with the big mill-owners of the district, who were chiefly Whig supporters. He had made strenuous representations to the local magistrate, contending that the ringleaders (whom were personally known to him) were of previous good character and that their families would suffer. Patrick’s arguments eventually prevailed, and the men were pardoned. What was remarkable was that he was known to privately detest the agitators and rabble-rousers from the larger towns, who were forever stirring up the populace and fomenting strife amongst the operative classes. He was tireless in his campaign to reform the criminal code, which he thought far too harsh, as it didn’t discriminate between acts of petty thefts and cold-blooded murder. Indeed, he had written in this vein to the Leeds Intelligencer, which had published one of his letters “A man will be hanged for stealing a fat sheep, though he be hungry; he will incur no greater punishment for murdering twenty men! In the name of common sense, what is the necessary tendency of this? Most undoubtedly, the man who robs will find it in his interest to murder also, for by so doing, he will be more likely to prevent discovery, and will, at all events, incur no greater punishment….”

“I do not believe in capital punishment for offences of a slight nature” Patrick now said, as his sister-in-law passed him the potatoes “It is very wrong of the State to impose such severe penalties. What measure we mete shall be measured unto us, therefore let us display forbearance and compassion towards our fellow creatures.” As an evangelical Anglican who placed the emphasis on personal commitment and individual faith, he tried to instil similar principles in his children and would discourse to them over the dinner table as if they were adults.

After tea, the children raced outside to play hide and seek at dusk amongst the tombstones. The parsonage was situated 100 yards from the church at the top of a steep hill which led down to the village, and surrounded by the ancient kirkyard on three sides. A dense fog was creeping in from the moors, which made the game all the more exciting, particularly as Emily and Branwell kept jumping out from behind headstones in order to frighten their more timid sisters.

“A highwayman was hanged nearby at the crossroads” Branwell informed them knowledgeably “and he now haunts the kirkyard out of revenge because they would not bury him on hallowed ground. He was a very wicked man, and even now his bony fingers will claw at your skin..” He scraped a twig across Anne’s cheek, causing her to scream aloud.

“Come along inside now, children” called their aunt “It’s getting too dark to play outdoors, and you’ll catch your death” She shooed them upstairs to the small room above the passage, formerly their nursery, which now served as the schoolroom. Tabby had left a tray of milk, bread and butter for their supper, before going off to spend the evening with her sister in the village.

“What if we all become Genii, as in the Arabian Nights” suggested Charlotte “Then we could rescue our fellows from their enemies and punish wrongdoers” She was talking about the game they had invented for their own amusement. Ever since their father had brought back some wooden soldiers for Branwell’s ninth birthday, they had each adopted one as their own. The two eldest had both devoured Scott’s Life of Napoleon and Branwell had called his soldier Bonaparte – otherwise known as Sneaky – and Charlotte had named hers the Duke of Wellington. Inspired by tales of exploration in Blackwood’s Magazine, their “fellows” had already sailed on a voyage of discovery to a new land they christened The Glasstown Federation. A map was swiftly drawn up – similar to those they had seen in A Grammar of General Geography – and the Federation was demarcated into provinces and capital cities, with each band of soldiers having its own province. Many of the battles were played out in the garden or on the moors, where they could be as boisterous and noisy as they wished. Their aunt had recently taken out a subscription to Fraser’s Magazine, which featured the explorations of Parry and Ross in the Arctic, and all the children read these tales avidly, incorporating them into the Glasstown Federation. Only the previous July the entire family had witnessed a balloon flight of the celebrated aeronaut Mr. Green from the vantage point of Keighley Moors, and Emily’s alias, Parry, now got about by balloon, disdaining conventional travel by boat.

“My enemies can’t catch me”

“Oh yes, they can” returned Branwell “Because you’ve got to land at some point for fresh supplies of food and fuel, and then old Sneaky and his men will be waiting for you with poisoned arrows”

“I shan’t tell you where we’re going to land” retorted Emily “It’s top secret, and it will be in the middle of the night”

“You’re forgetting that Boney has spies everywhere, and he is aided by Chief Genii Branni” They had enthusiastically adopted Charlotte’s idea of the Chief Genii - a powerful group of four who intervened much as Greek gods had intervened in the affairs of men - influencing the outcome of wars and disputes, and offering succour to their favourite heroes.

On his way upstairs their father paused to wind up the big grandfather clock situated halfway up the staircase, as he did every night before retiring. Their aunt had already retired to her bedchamber, and it was now pitch black outside.

“Don’t stay up late, children”

“It will be All Hallows Eve soon, the time of year when witches are abroad” said Branwell. Pendle Hill lay just across the moors from Haworth, and Tabby was fond of regaling them with grisly tales dating back to the 1600s when several witches were hanged for laying curses on their neighbours and consorting with Old Nick.

“I should quite like to be a witch flying high above the moors on a broomstick” declared Emily “I wouldn’t be scared of anything, and I should love to frighten people”

“Secure the shutters and fasten the latches” cried Anne fearfully, as the wind picked up outside, rattling the windows.

“A phantom could pass with ease through a casement” returned Emily scornfully. She flung open the lattice wide, admitting a blast of cold air. “Pooh! Let them come, let them wail and moan outside. I am not afraid ” she declared, and indeed her heightened colour suggested exhilaration and excited anticipation. “If there be any ghosts outside, then show yourselves!” she shouted into the night.

“I don’t think it is wise to mock the spirits of the dead” said Charlotte apprehensively. “Papa would not approve”

“Last night Emily and I heard footsteps coming from the kitchen” whispered Anne “I daren’t poke my head out from underneath the bedclothes. Even Emily was scared – yes, you were, don’t deny it!” The kitchen scullery had been built over the churchyard on the side nearest Church Lane, and in the evenings the children often frightened themselves with morbid fancies. The dark stone-flagged passage which led to the kitchen quarters occasionally echoed with unearthly footsteps and low moans, as did the cellar which was accessed by a flight of stone stairs from the hallway.

“Why don’t we go and investigate now” suggested Branwell eagerly “If we discover any ghosts we can send off a report to the Leeds Intelligencer. They might even pay us a small sum to publish the story and we would be quite famous” With Branwell and Emily leading the way, and Anne clutching Charlotte’s sleeve, they all descended into the narrow passageway which led into the back kitchen. Charlotte tripped on the lower step, occasioning a squeal of fright as both sisters cannoned into Branwell who dropped the taper, plunging them all into darkness. Anne shrank behind Charlotte, whose nerves were now wrought to fever pitch.

“Let us go back” said Charlotte, who had already turned around and was ready to re-ascend the stairs.

“I’ll come with you, Charlotte” cried Anne “Don’t leave me here.” Branwell and Emily forged ahead boldly, feeling their way forward in the darkness. Just before the bend in the passageway, they both distinctly heard the sound of soft shuffling. Emily went rigid and bit down on her lip.

“Wh – what was that?” whispered Branwell tremulously, all his bravado and bluster having deserted him.

“I do not know. Ssssh, it’s getting closer” A faint light glimmered and wavered as they both stood, rooted to the spot. The only apparition they encountered that night was Tabby, who had returned from the village earlier that evening, and was now bundled in a wrapper, shawl and nightcap - a guttering candle held aloft. She gave a small scream of alarm as she almost collided with Branwell.

“Oh! You gave me quite a turn – what are you children doing down here at this time of night?”

“We thought we heard the footsteps of some restless spirit” ventured Emily.

“Plenty of those poor wretched souls out there, like as not” shuddered Tabby, casting a glance towards the graveyard. “Be off to bed with you. Let the dead bury the dead is what I say”

* * * *

“What are you writing?” asked Charlotte curiously, as Branwell, now aged 13, scribbled furiously. Over the past two years they had composed numerous plays and dramas detailing the adventures of their principal characters, which tended to revolve around the leading political figures of the day. Since reading Byron’s Life and Works, their heroes were increasingly modelled on those of the Romantic poets reviewed within the pages of Blackwood’s Magazine. They were now busy writing features for a monthly magazine called Branwell’s Blackwood’s Magazine, in imitation of the adult version. Charlotte had recently taken over as editor, as Branwell had become bored with it and started on something new.

“You’ll have to be patient. It is not finished yet” replied Branwell mysteriously. He laughed aloud to himself as he wrote. As their invented society became more elaborate and sophisticated they had introduced satire and commentary on politics and literature, publishing debates in rival newspapers called the Young Men’s Intelligencer and Glasstown Intelligencer. Charlotte had just published an anonymous article in the Young Men’s Intelligencer, mocking her brother’s creation, Young Soult the Poet, whom she had christened the “Poetaster” for his pompous bombast. Branwell now put the finishing touches to a withering riposte, before showing it to her: “There is a person who claims to be related to the Duke of Wellington, his younger brother no less, Charles Wellesley. The writer is a craven impostor, a superannuated double-dyed villain whose cowardice and foppery is legendary. For casting such base aspersions on the character of one who is patronised by the highest in the land, I have it on good authority that his Royal Highness has offered a king’s ransom for this person’s head to be delivered on a pike staff. If the reader be in any doubt about the poetic merit of Young Soult then let him read the following stanzas, and weep for his own inadequacy” There followed an epic poem in the style of Lord Byron, couched in such extravagant and affected language, that Charlotte collapsed in fits of giggles.

Over tea Patrick and his sister-in-law discussed the Catholic Emancipation Act, which had been introduced to remove the exclusion of Catholics from official posts and the Houses of Parliament. As the son of an Irish farmer Patrick had been born into an Anglican family surrounded by Roman Catholics, and could therefore have been expected to oppose the Bill, but he had given it his cautious support, maintaining that Catholics should have equal rights.

“Providing the Protestant establishment is secured and Catholics can be speedily removed from public office should they prove troublesome, then it has my support”

“Why should they prove troublesome, Papa?” asked Charlotte “and what would be the point of allowing them to public office if they can be removed?”

“Why? Because their loyalty to the government could be compromised by their loyalty to the Pope, to whom Roman Catholics owe their primary allegiance. Which could constitute a grave danger to the State…Would you credit it?” Their father looked up from the paper, amazed at what he had just read “The Duke of Wellington has actually fought a duel with Lord Winchelsea at Battersea”

“I thought duels had been prohibited” said their aunt. “It sets such a bad example”

“A duel!” Branwell’s eyes lit up. “I wish I’d been there to see it. Was Lord Winchelsea killed?” The debates, which they had all been following in the papers, had suddenly become much more exciting.

“Was the Duke for or against the Act?” asked Anne.

“He is in favour, as am I. This Act is sorely needed, for I believe it will avert the danger of civil war in Ireland” Their father had written three letters to the Leeds Intelligencer on the subject, and had taken up his old refrain on the severity of the criminal code, campaigning for the abolition of the death penalty for all crimes except murder. They went on to discuss the death of King George IV, and the accession of William IV.

“I expect things will get better now” declared Charlotte “for the old king was a profligate”

“John Brown says he straddled the throne like a pox-ridden whore” said Branwell, not to be outdone by his older sister. Patrick didn’t comment but resolved to have a private word with his sexton about the language he used in front of his young son. John Brown was also the stonemason and grave-digger, and Branwell hung about whilst he worked, plying him with questions.

“There is an advertisement here about a forthcoming concert of Handel’s Messiah in Haworth a fortnight hence” said their father in an attempt to divert them “and as a treat you two eldest shall accompany me” Emily and Anne immediately set up a chorus of protests.

“Why can’t we go, Papa?” demanded Emily indignantly “We are much better behaved than Branwell”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but you’re not quite old enough yet. However, you and Anne will be able to stay up extra late, and perhaps Tabby will prepare your favourite pudding” Not altogether mollified, Emily scowled at the floor, until her aunt reprimanded her.

“Emily, you must learn to do as your father tells you. You would not have the patience to sit through a concert”

As the weather improved, they spent more time outdoors, exploring the moor uplands above Haworth and leaping across the becks, which foamed and tumbled over their stony beds. Springing up amongst the granite and whinstone outcrops were bilberry plants, yellow crocuses, and harebells – always noticed first by Emily. Armed with Bewick’s trusty guide, they were soon able to identify all the birds they saw: ring ouzel, blackbirds, meadow pippets, finches, and plovers. One of their favourite walks was alongside Sladen Beck to a place they called “The Meeting of the Waters” where several springs converged. A slightly longer walk took them to Ponden Kirk, a large rock formation high up on Stanbury Moor. At the base of the crag was a hole in the rock they called the “fairy cave”. Emily would seat herself on her stone chair, amusing her younger sister Anne with her fanciful tales. When the setting sun shone on the crags, they seemed to glow with a golden light all their own.

“The Faery Queen has her palace here” said Emily.

“Where?” asked Anne, peering up at her sister and shading her eyes from the sun “I can’t see it”

“Inside these crags” replied Emily “Her palace is invisible to mortals. But at certain times of the year, when the moon shines bright, the entrance to Faeryland becomes visible: a door opens in the rock and if you’re quick you might be able to slip through” Charlotte was seated a little way off, having wedged herself in one of the clefts between the sun-warmed boulders, daydreaming. The moors stretched before them – a vast expanse of swells and troughs, like the boundless sea.

“Would you be able to come back?” Anne asked Emily.

“That would depend on the Queen. Sometimes children come back as changelings: they are half mortal and half fairy. Once a man in Ireland found an entrance to Faeryland, but when he reappeared many years later he was stark raving mad and no-one believed his stories”

“I would be too frightened to go through the door” said Anne “In case the Queen wouldn’t let me return home”

“I wouldn’t be frightened” declared Emily “I’d like to find out for myself. In fact, one evening I might sneak out here and see if-”

“Stuff and nonsense” was Branwell’s verdict. He had been scrambling over the rocks above Emily’s head, and had overheard the latter part of their conversation. “You would most likely lose your way in the dark, and become mired in one of the bogs” He began to recount to them gruesome tales of corpses mired in the marshes, where horse and rider had sunk without trace. “John Brown says that many a foul murder has been committed in these parts. You could scream your lungs out and only the sheep would hear you” They all knew that the moors could be treacherous: during one particularly harsh winter the schoolmaster at Heptonstall had become lost, and his frozen body discovered in the snow.

Later that summer Patrick became severely ill with inflammation of the lungs and was confined to bed for three weeks, his pastoral duties being performed by curates from the neighbouring parish of Bradford. Whilst in a weakened condition, he read Thomas Carlyle’s On History, brooding on what would become of his children if anything were to happen to him. As ‘perpetual curate’ he enjoyed a lifetime security of tenure with a modest stipend, which would cease on his death. Ever mindful of the early sudden deaths of their mother and two sisters, the children became alarmed and subdued. Their father had inherited an unusually strong constitution and they had never known him to be ill before. Anne wept openly, and even Branwell looked worried.

“If father dies, what will become of us? We will be sent to the workhouse”

“No, we would be sent to aunt’s relatives in Penzance” said Charlotte “We would live with our cousins”

“But I don’t want to!” cried Emily passionately “I want to stay here forever” As Patrick’s health improved, and the danger passed, his thoughts turned to formal schooling for his daughters. It was imperative that they were provided for.

“They need accomplishments” his sister-in-law advised “Can you afford a drawing master?” The outcome of these discussions was that their father engaged the services of a John Bradley from Keighley to give them drawing lessons, and they were soon able to provide illustrations of their imaginary world: Charlotte drew lakes and castles, with grand residences for her heroes, whilst Emily sketched the dog. Anne drew flowers and Branwell - who was discovered to have quite a gift for drawing - began to paint portraits of the characters they had created.

“Allow me to introduce your Nemesis, the great pirate and demagogue Alexander Rogue” He unveiled his latest portrait with a flourish. They were also allowed to read extracts from his epic tale entitled The Pirate - heavily influenced by Lord Byron’s The Corsair. Rogue and his trusty band of desperados and revolutionaries had cut a swathe through the capital city of Great Glasstown, leaving a trail of devastation and ruin behind them.

Charlotte was aghast and took immediate steps to remedy this perilous state of affairs. Her hero, the Duke of Zamorna – who was modelled on the Duke of Wellington but resembled Byron in appearance – speedily mustered his forces to repel the invaders. Charlotte invoked her Genii who raised a huge storm at sea, causing the Pirate to be shipwrecked. Marooned on a desert island, Rogue could not do much harm for the present, but this did not stop him from plotting and hatching escape plans. Branwell lost no time in getting his men to gather the requisite materials to construct a huge hot air balloon, which would enable them to escape from the island. He was able to draw the balloon, adding much realistic detail which he had copied from an illustration in Fraser’s Magazine: “Well, my hearties, never despair for we will soon be airborne”

“Time to walk the plank, Rogue” said Emily, aiming an imaginary musket at Branwell’s soldier. Parry the explorer had just landed on the island and captured Rogue and his bloodthirsty crew, frogmarching them onto his vessel.

“Never. This will soon be my ship and these my men. If you think I am going to surrender, Parry, you are much mistak-” Emily felled him with a single shot.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Parry” said Branwell, calmly picking up his soldier from the floor and dusting it off “but you are forgetting the Genii, our deux ex machina” His frequent attempts to flummox the others with Latin and Greek phrases only met with partial success, since Charlotte kept pace with his classical studies and imparted everything she learned to her younger sisters. Their literary endeavours were briefly interrupted by Aunt Elizabeth’s appearance at the door to the schoolroom.

“You’ll ruin your eyes - what are you all so busy writing about?” Charlotte and Anne were painstakingly sewing together tiny squares of paper into booklets, whilst Emily and Branwell were vying with each other as to how small they could make their writing. By common consent they had adopted a minuscule script that was indecipherable without a magnifying glass. Their aunt peered more closely at the microscopic lettering, which resembled an army of ants marching across the page.

“We are pretending to be Lilliputians, aunt” said Branwell, looking up “As in Gulliver’s Travels: that is why our writing is so miniature” They always had a ready answer to deflect her curiosity.

“Oh, I see…” She looked vaguely puzzled. “Take care not to ruin your eyesight, dears…”

“And paper is so expensive” added Charlotte, conscious of their aunt’s parsimony in matters of household economy. The latter was about to withdraw when she suddenly remembered she had an announcement to make.

“Charlotte, you are nearly fifteen now, and both your father and I think you would greatly benefit from a course of instruction for young ladies. Miss Margaret Wooler’s school at Roe Head has only ten pupils, and once we see how you get on then your younger sisters will be able to join you”

“Where is Roe Head, aunt?” enquired Charlotte, unperturbed. In fact she was quite looking forward to the prospect of being sent away to school and was eager to learn as much as she could. “Is it very far?”

“The school is near Huddersfield, some twenty miles distant, and is run by Miss Wooler and her four sisters”. The Headmistress turned out to be like a “kindly but firm Mother Abbess, dressed in white robes” Charlotte wrote in a letter home shortly after her arrival in January 1831. The school was a large 3-storey house with pleasant gardens and lawns, surrounded by woods and shrubbery to the side and rear. At first Charlotte found it difficult to make friends: naturally shy, she was used to the exclusive company of her sisters and brother, and the fact that she was short-sighted and therefore awkward at games, did not stand her in good stead with some of the more robust and boisterous girls. Conscious of the expense of sending her to school Charlotte worked extremely hard and proved an apt pupil, gaining good marks. She exhibited some flair for drawing but little for music.

“You’re a peculiar little thing, aren’t you?” remarked Mary Taylor one afternoon, coming up to Charlotte, who was immersed in a book, her back against a tree trunk.

“I dare say I am” replied Charlotte, looking up.

“At least she is not conceited” said Ellen Nussey in her defence, taking a seat beside Charlotte. “I think we shall become friends” she said a moment later. Charlotte immediately took a shine to Ellen, who was kind and gentle, and listened with interest to her stories about Haworth and the parsonage. Before long she had managed to attain a certain measure of popularity, as she was modest about her academic achievements and able to entertain the others with her stories after lights were out.

“What is it like – living in a rectory?” asked Mary later that evening in the dormitory, as they sat together on Ellen’s bed.

“As you go in the door to the right is the front parlour and study where Father prepares all his sermons, and to the left is the dining room. Further back is the kitchen and store-room, which Tabby uses as a pantry. Upstairs there are four bedchambers…”

“Only four?” queried Mary “But where do you all sleep?”

“It is rather cramped” admitted Charlotte “But when the wind howls you wouldn’t want to be on your own….” Her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper “We are surrounded by the graveyard, you see...” This had the desired effect on her listeners, who wanted to hear more, but Charlotte continued “My aunt’s room is above the dining room and has by far the best views, and father’s bedroom is above the study. Over the passage is the room where we girls sleep. My brother’s bedroom is at the back, and on the opposite side of the staircase is the servant’s room”

“How peculiar” mused Ellen “But then where on earth do guests sleep?”

“We don’t generally have guests to stay, but I suppose Tabby’s room could be made up because she has a sister in the village she can stay with…”

One afternoon Charlotte had the unexpected pleasure of a visit from Branwell, who had walked all the way from Haworth to visit her. Since he could not stay long Miss Wooler permitted them both to stroll about the grounds.

“Tell me all about what is happening in Glasstown” said Charlotte, after he had told her the Haworth news.

“It has been renamed Verdopolis” Branwell informed her, showing off his knowledge of Latin. “I suppose you’ve heard all about the riots” All the local newspapers had carried editorials about the Swing Riots opposing the mechanization of farming, which had led to more job losses. “Well, the Parliamentary Reform Act has just been passed” continued Branwell importantly, aware that her friend Ellen Nussey had just drifted up and was listening to their conversation.

“You are both so learned” marvelled Ellen “I know nothing whatsoever about politics. It all seems so dull – what is the purpose of the new Act?”

“It enfranchises a section of the middle class. Father supports it, of course, but I think it a bad idea, as the vote will be used irresponsibly by the merchant classes, people in trade and so forth, so as to further their own interests. There will be further unrest in the countryside, mark my words, for the Whigs always support the new machinery, “progress” as they call it”

“I thought enlightenment and progress to be a good thing” said Ellen, much astonished.

“Not if it causes starving men to riot and be hanged” said Branwell. “The road to Hell is paved with good inventions. Anyhow, the recent riots have been reflected in the infernal realm” he added mysteriously for Charlotte’s benefit. “As above so below”

“What are Emily and Anne up to these days?” asked Charlotte “They don’t write very often”

“Oh, they are always off playing up by Sladen’s beck. I asked Emily the other day what has been happening in Parry’s Land, and she replied they were all sitting down to tea! The Rosstown rustics lead an even duller existence, having just milked the cows” Charlotte laughed. Parry’s Land and Rosstown, the provinces ruled by Emily and Anne’s aliases, were inhabited by simple farmers and shepherds who lived in stone-built dwellings similar to those all over the West Riding of Yorkshire: there were no grand estates, no artistic coteries, no revolutionaries or aristocrats.

“What are you two talking about?” asked Ellen curiously. Branwell smiled and walked off without replying. It was tacitly understood between them that Ellen was not to be admitted to their private “infernal” realm, and Charlotte passed it off as a reference to books they had both been reading. Before leaving, Branwell casually mentioned that he had overheard his aunt and father discussing what to do about Emily and Anne’s schooling.

“Father cannot afford to send them here – at least not yet – so you are to give them their lessons when you return at Christmas. Aunt says you can teach them all that you have learnt”

“I shan’t mind that. I’ve learned some French, heaps more history than Oliver Goldsmith’s History of England, and we study the Bard of course. What about you – are you to go to school?”

“No, Papa continues to tutor me. I’m translating Virgil’s Aeneid, which is a bore, and reading the Greek tragedies of Euripides and Aeschylus. I’m getting on wonderfully well with my drawing, and we are to have music lessons. Papa is going to buy a piano! It’s meant to be a secret, but I heard them discussing it, so we’re not to tell Emily and Anne yet as it’s a surprise for Christmas”

“Oh, I so long to be at home” cried Charlotte wistfully “There are no newspapers or magazines here, and I imagine you’re all out on the moors in this weather”

“Most days” admitted Branwell “I must go now, because I’ve a long walk ahead of me. Aunt says she hopes you are a credit to us all, Tabby says she hopes you are eating well. Oh, I almost forgot, she made these blackcurrant tarts for you” Branwell thrust a paper parcel into Charlotte’s hands, adding sheepishly “Actually, I’ve eaten half of them”

“Dear Tabby, give them all my love and tell Father I’m getting good marks for my essays”

“I shall tell him your conduct is appalling and your marks quite abysmal” Branwell called over his shoulder, as he set off at a run.

Chapter Two – 1832 - 1834

After a year and a half away at Roe Head Charlotte returned home in May 1832, and they settled into a comfortable routine with Charlotte instructing her sisters upstairs in the schoolroom – and Branwell closeted in the study with his father – leaving their afternoons free. One of their chief pleasures was to borrow books from the circulating library at Keighley, and they frequently traipsed the four miles there and back over the moors. Their father’s small but select library was stocked with predictable titles such as Gulliver’s Travels, The Pilgrim’s Progress, and Paradise Lost, and they hankered after fresh ideas: opening the pages of a new book was like embarking on an exciting new adventure or entering a magical realm.

Once their lessons were finished they turned their attention to more pressing matters, and for long periods nothing further was heard except the scratching of pens in the schoolroom. The literary partnership and rivalry between the two eldest inspired them to new heights of “scribblomania”, as Charlotte referred to it. No sooner had one of them finished a tale, than the other embarked on a rival tale. Rogue had faced a firing squad for his revolutionary activities, but was promptly resurrected as the Earl of Northangerland (Branwell’s new alias) The latter’s anti-royalist Jacobin faction frequented a secret society called the Elysium, loosely based on the learned symposiums (Noctes Ambrosianae) at Ambrose’s Tavern in Blackwood’s Magazine. The members of this drinking club were sworn never to divulge its secrets, which consisted of gambling, drinking, and fighting. Duels of honour were fought, and copious amounts of whiskey punch were consumed, whilst the principals argued passionately about poetry and politics – all described with great relish in The Politics of Verdopolis and Real Life in Verdopolis. Not to be outdone, Charlotte created a “Philosopher’s Isle” where the nobles of Verdopolis were instructed in arcane arts by Manfred the Magician, a rather sinister character based on Byron’s hero of the same name.

After coming across an article in Fraser’s Magazine featuring the notorious Edinburgh resurrectionists Burke and Hare, there occurred a similar outbreak of body-snatching in Verdopolis. Charlotte’s persona Charles Wellesley penned an anonymous article insinuating that prominent figures, including Northangerland, had taken part in these nefarious activities, and claimed to have actually witnessed the opening of a tomb at dead of night in a Verdopolis cemetery: “It will soon become necessary for the authorities to post guards over freshly buried corpses and to prevent the violation of graves by erecting a framework of iron bars called mortsafes” Northangerland issued a furious rebuttal, casting doubt on the sanity of the Duke’s younger brother Charles: “This fiend incarnate, who is a perpetual thorn in the side of his elder brother the Duke – like a buzzing gadfly to an oxen – has made certain libellous accusations against the Earl of Northangerland, and this base calumny shall not pass unchallenged. He is actuated by spite, having been refused entry to the hallowed precincts of the Elysium Club, whose doors will be forever closed to those unworthy of the name. It is beneath the dignity of this paper to say more about this insignificant and arrogant young pup, whose infantile scribblings are a sore trial to his illustrious elder brother, whose noble reputation must perforce suffer by dint of familial association…”

In September, Charlotte was invited to visit the Nusseys and was driven there by her brother in a hired gig. Branwell was much impressed by The Rydings, an imposing residence with castellated turrets set in landscaped gardens.

“Lucky you” he commented, gazing about him “I shall be back in about two weeks to collect you. Are you going to ask her to visit the parsonage? She’ll think it absolutely awful compared to this”

“I’ve already described it so she knows exactly what to expect” replied Charlotte composedly “People must take me as they find me” She didn’t believe in giving herself airs and graces – despite the palatial residences and grand personages she wrote about in secret – and was quietly confident that Ellen and Mary would not be as dismayed as Branwell intimated. Or if they were, they were far too well-bred to show it. She was determined that her newfound friends should like and respect her for who she was, and she had concealed nothing about her life at Haworth.

In July of 1833 the invitation was returned, and Charlotte’s friend Ellen Nussey visited Haworth for the first time. Branwell, who was now sixteen, drove his sisters in a dog-cart to meet Ellen at Bolton Bridge. She was laden down with gifts for the family.

“You silly creature” Charlotte chided her, as they bundled Ellen and her effects into the cart. “You really shouldn’t have brought so much with you” She was glad Ellen had come in the summer, as the bleak and desolate wind-swept moors presented a very different aspect in the winter.

“The scenery is quite magnificent” Ellen echoed her thoughts, as they bowled along.

“Wait until you meet Papa” said Branwell “We call him the old Cossack – he sleeps with a loaded pistol by his bedside, due to the unrest occasioned by Luddites – and he discharges the bullet outside his window each morning, so don’t worry if you hear a loud bang… Bronte means thunder in Greek” he added, showing off his classical knowledge.

“Does he have a fearful temper?” asked Ellen nervously.

“It is the only way of emptying the chamber and rendering it safe” Charlotte assured her “He is actually quite a hypochondriac and will doubtless recommend vinegar and sal volatile as restoratives, should you catch a cold”

“I think Papa models himself on The Vicar of Wakefield” remarked Branwell “as he is forever telling us that happiness is not dependent on one’s fortune or circumstance, but one’s constitution, by which Oliver Goldsmith means one’s temperament”

“I think there is a great deal in that” said Anne thoughtfully “People with agreeable temperaments do seem to be happier”

“Poppycock” retorted Branwell “Were Papa a lot richer, I know for a fact that I would be a lot happier”

“You know that for a fact, do you?” queried Charlotte with a smile.

“Of course I know it! As a girl, you cannot be expected to understand the importance of money, and what it can do for a young fellow starting out in life. All our misfortunes stem from a want of proper means”

“Yes, but you can inherit a fortune and soon squander it through improvidence”

“And improvidence leads to penury” added Anne, “as a weak temperament will tend towards vice, the gaming tables.”

“Oh, stop quoting Papa all the time” said Branwell with a mixture of irritation as well as affection towards his younger sister “Do you wish to end up in a convent?” Ellen glanced curiously at Emily. She had not participated in the conversation so far and was strangely silent; Ellen decided she must be extremely shy and reserved.

After tea Branwell played for them on the new piano their father had purchased. Although Emily also had a pronounced musical aptitude, she could not be persuaded to perform for the assembled company.

“Come along, Emily, you play so prettily” urged their aunt. Emily looked obstinate.

“Branwell is enjoying himself, whereas I would not: I prefer to listen”

“Charlotte told me it was your birthday this week” said Ellen, presenting her with a rather bulky present “So I chose this for you. I do hope you like it”

Emily’s gift turned out to be a leather writing case, which drew gasps from the onlookers. It opened on a hinged clasp to disclose a block of paper, two inkwells of black and indigo with matching quill pens, an assortment of pencils and an India rubber. The case was fitted with a lock – a miniature key being supplied on a gold chain. Made of quality leather, the writing case was a portable desk in its own right, and would not have looked out of place in the study of a professional author such as Sir Walter Scott. Although Emily did not say much they could tell she was pleased: she kept locking and unlocking the case, before secreting the chain within her handkerchief pocket. Finally she looked up and a slow smile stole across her features.

“Thank you” she said shyly. Her birthday gift was more costly than anything the family could have afforded, either individually or collectively, and in its generosity totally eclipsed the other presents: an artist’s palette and drawing materials for Branwell and Charlotte, a tapestry work-box for Anne, and a box of crystallised fruit for Aunt Branwell.

“Charlotte says you like to write poetry” said Ellen “I hope this will encourage you to write more” Emily looked embarrassed – she did not like strangers to know of her private pursuits, and sometimes wished her older sister was more discreet. This naturally led on to a discussion about poetry and their favourite poets. Charlotte favoured Wordworth’s Prelude and William Cowper’s Castaway. Branwell declared for Coleridge and Lord Byron, Anne for Shelley and Shakespeare.

“What think you, Emily?” enquired her brother.

“Keats is the superior poet” replied Emily, looking up briefly from her writing case. “John Donne and William Blake also have a felicity of expression I admire”

The following morning before the others had appeared at the breakfast table, Branwell remarked to Charlotte “That must have cost a fortune: the leather is hand-tooled from Morocco and those pens are the last word in elegance. You are fortunate to have such a generous friend, Charlotte. She must think very highly of Emily”

“I believe she does” replied Charlotte “Do not tell Emily, but I secretly showed Ellen one of Emily’s poems that I copied out at Christmas and took away with me to school. Both Ellen and Mary were quite amazed”

“So it seems that Ellen courts your friendship in order to secure Emily’s” concluded Branwell with characteristic bluntness.

“If that were the case, which it is not, since we have been close friends dating from my arrival at Roe Head, I should not be bothered” returned Charlotte equably. “I am flattered that anyone should take such an interest in my sister. Emily’s poetry is remarkable, and if I could afford to buy her such a gift I should have done the same. Emily is quite made up with it – it is what she has always wanted”

At this point Ellen entered the room with a breezy “Good morning” to all, followed closely by Emily and Anne.

“Did you sleep well?” enquired Branwell solicitously. “No wailing phantoms, or rattling doors to disturb your slumbers?”

“I did catch a glimpse of a red-haired apparition in the corridor - which occasioned me no little alarm - until I realised it must have been you” replied Ellen. Branwell grinned. He enjoyed Ellen’s ripostes, delivered in the selfsame spirit of raillery, and put himself out to entertain and be as charming as possible.

“Good morning, my dear” Patrick greeted his young guest “You will pardon me if I am absent for most of the morning on parish duties – I have a number of christenings and baptisms to perform – but I’m sure my children will see that you are suitably entertained. Wonderful news: The Factory Act has just been brought in, which limits the number of hours children under eleven can work in mills. I don’t think it goes far enough but this is long overdue...”

“I can see where you all get your interest in politics from” giggled Ellen to Charlotte, when their father had departed.

“How shall we amuse ourselves today?” was the burning topic over the breakfast table. By general consent - it being a fine day – it was resolved that an excursion to Bolton Abbey would afford most pleasure to all. Branwell went down into the village to procure a pony-phaeton to convey them to the Abbey, and Tabby packed a basket for their lunch as they were to picnic alfresco. They passed a pleasant afternoon strolling the abbey grounds, whilst Branwell quizzed Ellen on her religious views: her family leaned towards Calvinist doctrine, a creed she had grown up with and never questioned.

“Surely you don’t believe in all that cant” said Branwell, who couldn’t resist needling their guest.

“What do you mean?” Ellen looked confused “We are good Christians like yourselves”

“Calvinists believe in predestination and that only the Elect shall escape damnation”

“Well, yes. My uncle is a clergyman and that is what he preaches. The virtuous – that is, the Elect – will be taken up to Heaven”

“But if their fate is predestined, then what on earth has virtue got to do with it? Men who have committed wicked deeds may be admitted to Heaven if they have been designated the Elect by the Almighty, whereas those who are truly virtuous may not escape damnation if they have not been chosen. And none of their actions on earth can affect their fate if it has been predestined before they were born. One might as well sin as be good, since it makes no difference to the outcome”

“But it is true” insisted Ellen. Anne looked troubled.

“It frightens me to think that we cannot – by our own actions – save our own souls”

“If it is true” went on Branwell in a sceptical tone “then it makes a complete mockery of morality. The Calvinist God is as capricious and heartless as Zeus, with his favourites – the Elect – who are to be saved, whilst the rest of humanity – the Damned - are to be cast into the fiery Gulph”

“It also makes a mockery of Christ’s teaching” weighed in Emily quietly and unexpectedly. Ellen by this time looked so uncomfortable and distressed that Charlotte drew her to one side.

“Oh, pay no heed to my brother. He likes to play Devil’s Advocate, and delights in baiting Father’s curates in much the same way: it is simply his way of drawing attention to himself” Privately she was of her brother’s opinion, but considered that Branwell had exceeded the bounds of taste and good manners by questioning the personal beliefs of one who was their guest. They ate their lunch soon afterwards, and the rest of the afternoon passed without incident, Branwell having resolved to refrain from any further argument. They strolled by the river, exploring the forest paths and grassy rides.

“Centuries ago this used to be a hunting forest with six hunting lodges” said Charlotte “and stags and boars were hunted. Then came the dissolution of the Priory in 1539…”

“I see we are in for another history lesson” groaned Branwell. “Ever since she returned from Roe Head Charlotte cannot get out of the habit of imparting snippets of information, for our general edification”

“She was like that at school” grinned Ellen, hooking her arm through her friend’s. “Perhaps you are destined to be a teacher, Charlotte”

The following day Branwell accompanied his father to Keighley to attend a lecture on the expansion of the railways: Patrick had recently joined the Keighley Mechanics Institute, thereby gaining access to the reading room and lectures, many of which were on scientific topics. As the weather was still glorious, the girls decided to show Ellen one of their favourite spots on Stanbury Moor where Sladen Beck had its source. Emily was striding ahead with Keeper at her heels, the mastiff bulldog which had replaced Jasper when he died. As they neared the Waterfall - situated in a mist-filled hollow strewn with huge grey boulders and overhung with silver birches - Emily became more animated. “We come here often” she told Ellen. “We call it the Fairy Glen” She turned her attention to Charlotte and Anne, who were following at a more sedate pace, and had to be helped across a swollen beck as they were nervous of losing their footing.

“The stones are so slippery” complained Charlotte, clutching at Emily, who started to laugh.

“The water is only a few inches deep, you ninny” said Emily. Anne had already tiptoed daintily across, grasping her sister’s hand. “If you can’t keep your balance just wade across. There, Ellen has done it.”

“Since I have already got my shoes wet…..” said Ellen, wading back across to the bank and taking hold of Charlotte’s other hand. Once her older sister was safely across the stream Emily scrambled to the top of an incline and soon disappeared from sight, Keeper bounding at her heels. The other three settled themselves atop a huge flat boulder, and contemplated the distant hills. The sky was a cloudless blue, the ling and yellow gorse in full bloom. Larks and linnets joined together in full-throated chorus, and curlews and lapwings wheeled above the heath.

“Emily has probably gone on to Top Withens, which is only a mile or so further, but it’s quite steep” said Charlotte “At the base of Ponden Kirk there is a megalithic portal, and it is said that if a couple crawl through the hole together they will die if they do not wed within a year, and haunt the rock forever…” Ellen was intrigued. “But I think it is too far for us to go today” added Charlotte. “Besides, Emily prefers to be solitary”

“She has a miraculous way with all wild creatures” said Anne “She has even managed to tame a hawk she has named “Nero”, which perches on her wrist, and flies to her when she whistles”

“I wish Emily were more sociable” said Ellen “If she attends Roe Head next term I hope we shall become firm friends”

“Emily has no instinct for friendship, she would rather have her dog Keeper about her and the liberty to roam at will” replied Charlotte. Her sister was not alone in this, as they all preferred the freedom of the moors to the company of the villagers. Whenever the girls had occasion to go down into the village - whether to make some small purchase or on an errand of mercy to some impoverished widow and her orphans - Emily would hurry by the roadside cottages with her face averted, so as to avoid the notice of curious spectators peering through their windows. This behaviour merely had the effect of drawing further attention to herself: some conjectured as to whether she was concealing some hideous deformity, which made them peer and crane all the more. When Charlotte and Anne entered a shop, Emily would hover in the background, so as to pre-empt any possibility of social intercourse. It was natural diffidence and not pride that led her to shun the familiarity of the locals, but this extreme reticence had its predictable result: “Eeh, she’s a proud one, not for mingling with the likes of us” was the general verdict of the villagers. “Gives herself airs and graces, that one.” She did not - never was a soul more simple and without affectation or artifice - but she was thus misjudged, and this in turn made her even more taciturn.

They drowsed in the sun for about an hour, content to listen to the sound of water cascading down the rocks, and the distant bleating of sheep.

“It is so beautiful and peaceful up here” murmured Ellen, gazing at the expanse of heath which stretched before them. “I can see why you like it so much. The scenery is quite untouched”

“Yes, it is like Milton’s Paradise Regained. There are none of Blake’s dark satanic mills up here” agreed Charlotte, referring to the district’s woollen mills, and their chimneys belching black smoke into the environs.

“I hope that the railways don’t come to these parts” said Ellen, as Emily reappeared just above them “The scenery would be marred. It is said that it is too dangerous for women who are with child to travel by rail: the high speed might cause them to abort or miscarry”

“Father says the spread of the railways is inevitable” said Anne “Manufacturers will be able to transport their goods by rail instead of by barge or horse-drawn carts, and everything will be speeded up”

“It is like the new machinery: in Haworth the weavers’ cottages consist of two-roomed cellar dwellings, one room for wool-combing and the other often housing six or seven members of a family. But before long, if they want work they will have to move to the bigger towns” said Charlotte “Papa says the factory conditions are appalling, with workers losing their limbs to the power looms”

“It is no wonder they dread the new machinery” said Ellen, with a shudder.

“Chiefly, they dread it because one machine can do the work of several men” continued Charlotte “but I suppose we must have progress and change…”

“But I do not like change or progress!” cried Emily, flinging herself down beside them “I like things to remain as they are, as they have always been. Why must we have progress? This does not change” She encompassed the moors with a sweeping gesture “Nor does the sun, the moon, the stars..”

“But Natures does embrace change” rejoined her older sister gently “With the cycle of the seasons, the livid purples and brilliant golds turn to russet and bronze: as summer turns to autumn, the blue skies become grey and dark, the moon waxes and wanes..”

“I was not speaking of that sort of change” said Emily “The phases of the moon, and the natural rotation of the seasons is fluctuation not progress: man-made change is not natural and only benefits man – it does not benefit the rest of creation”

“You have some curious notions, Emily” said Charlotte “Constancy in nature is to be expected, but Man stands above and outside nature: he is not therefore subject to the same laws”

“It is only his own arrogance that makes him think so” retorted Emily. “I would rather be here than anywhere else on earth” she said, a moment later.

“But would you not like to have female friends of your own age?” persisted Ellen “I confess, that is the thing I like best about school, not the lessons”

“I am not gregarious. The attachment of a very few suffices me” replied Emily, tossing some scraps of her cold mutton pie to Keeper. They lingered a while longer, loathe to leave this place of enchantment.

* * * *

Towards the end of September Emily was bitten by a dog she fancied had rabies. Whilst strolling on the moors, she had come across a dog swaying from side to side. Unafraid, she had gone to stroke the dog, which had emitted a low grow, before biting her on the arm. She hurried home, telling no-one of the incident. Branwell’s sensationalist stories of people afflicted with hydrophobia, of how the onset of madness caused them to foam at the mouth and bark, determined her on her course of action. When no-one was about, she took herself off quietly to the laundry room and cauterised her arm with a hot iron, gritting her teeth at the searing pain. Two days later infection set in, and Anne discovered her sister beside the well in the back courtyard, inexpertly attempting to bandage her arm.

“You must tell Papa” said Anne, horrified at the angry red blistering. In keeping with her stoical nature, Emily at first refused to see a doctor until their father insisted. After treating and dressing the wound, the doctor asked why she had said nothing.

“I did not wish to be committed to an asylum” replied Emily.

“I think you will be spared on this occasion” said Dr.Wheelhouse, suppressing a smile. “If a dog bites you again, seek medical help immediately. Fortunately, this will heal. Keep it clean, and I will put a fresh bandage on next week” For days afterward, Branwell followed Emily about, barking like a dog and peering closely for signs of madness.

“I will set Keeper on you, if you don’t leave off” said Emily, who could see the funny side of it now that the danger was past. In the end she had the last laugh, for one night she filled her mouth full of soapsuds and leered over her brother’s sleeping form, causing him to start up in horror.

The winter of 1833-34 was very rainy, and one morning, after a particularly violent storm, Branwell reported that a section of the east chimney-stack had come down in the night. Patrick looked concerned. As the parish vicar he was personally responsible for financing any repairs or maintenance work carried out on Church lands, and was often burdened with temporal concerns.

“There’s a hole where the wind can get in underneath” continued Branwell “I’ll climb up a ladder and have a look myself, Papa, if you like”

“No, no” protested his father “The wind’s too strong. We’ll ask John Brown when the storm’s quietened to see if he can’t make good the damage”

“Is it a gaping hole?” enquired Charlotte.

“Most holes gape, don’t they?” returned Branwell with inexorable logic, causing Emily to smile.

As the moors were too sodden and boggy for outdoor excursions they were confined indoors, and soon reverted to their imaginary world. Charlotte composed a narrative called The Foundling, introducing themes of romance, followed by The Spell - a curious tale full of omens and magic. As their powers of narration and literary rivalry increased, Charlotte and Branwell continued to satirize each other’s work and rewrite each other’s version of events. Branwell initiated the Wars of Encroachment and Aggression. Threatened by the invasion of French armies, the Verdopolitans retreated eastward. This led to the founding of a new kingdom which they decided to call Angria. Wearying of the constant intrigues and jockeying for position amongst the various aristocratic coteries at the court of Verdopolis, as depicted in Charlotte’s High Life in Verdopolis, Branwell introduced a more prosaic element – chronicling the rise of the woollen industry and the fortunes of a mill owner. This took place amidst much carousing behind the closed doors of the Elysium Club, where “rare apes”, gallants, brigands, cattle rustlers and revolutionaries rubbed shoulders with poets and erudite men of letters.

In the meantime, bored by the endless wars which ravaged Angria and impatient with Charlotte’s hopelessly romantic heroines, Emily created an alternative realm called Gondal, ruled by a powerful and ruthless Queen called Augusta.

“You can help me draw the Palace of Instruction” Emily told Anne “Beneath the palace are the dungeons for naughty children”

“Won’t the children be frightened in the dark dungeons?” asked Anne.

“They must be punished for bad behaviour” replied Emily. “Don’t worry, they will eventually be rescued” As the weather was too inclement to go outdoors, they acted out these scenes in the cellar. The captives – described in piteous language by Anne -prayed for release from their bondage whilst Emily’s characters hatched daring rescue plans, which involved scaling the castle walls and stunning the brutish gaolers.

Much to Patrick’s satisfaction, slavery was abolished throughout the British Empire. “Slavery is contrary to God’s laws” he declared “The British must set a shining example, a beacon of light to which other nations can aspire” Their father was feeling particularly pleased as the previous year he had managed to obtain a grant to build a new Sunday school in Haworth, to be situated in Church Lane. One of the conditions imposed by the Church Trustees was that the Brontes would take turns to teach at the school on Sunday mornings when they were a little older.

“As the minister’s son and daughters it will be incumbent upon you to supply the educational deficiency” Patrick informed them. The school had been opened in the summer to much fanfare and a celebratory tea at the parsonage. His gratification, however, soon turned to outrage as he received the unwelcome news that the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834 had just been passed by the Whig administration. Formerly, relief for the poor had been administered by local parishes, but the new Act put an end to any relief available outside the workhouses.

“This pernicious piece of legislation is designed to force people to seek work, and does not allow for those incapable of work either though old age, infirmity or a dearth of unemployment”

“But should not the needy and the impoverished seek employment?” queried their aunt “It is better than being idle, surely, and indeed many of the honest poor prefer work to relying on charity”

“With the fluctuations of the textile trade periods of unemployment are inevitable” countered Patrick “and the government cannot legislate against bad harvests. Honest hardworking folk who cannot find work through no fault of their own must now either starve or be forced into workhouses”

“I thought workhouses provided work for the poor” said Anne, confused “What is so wicked about that, Papa?” Her father patiently explained to them the extremely harsh and punitive regime imposed by workhouses - the relentless hard labour, and the segregation - of wives from husbands, brothers from sisters, of parents from children.

“In many cases parents never see their children again” concluded Patrick “It is an abomination – like slavery – and all civilised persons must campaign against it with all their might”

“John Brown knew a boy at school who was orphaned and sent to a workhouse” said Branwell “One 7-year-old boy could not work fast enough to satisfy the overseer, who nailed his ear to the table” Anne and Charlotte looked horrified, and Emily turned pale.

“Hush, Branwell. The sexton is prone to exaggeration, but I daresay such maltreatment is not unheard of. I must get up a petition to Parliament to repeal the laws” Over the next few weeks Patrick was kept very busy with parish affairs: an outbreak of typhus fever over the winter months had resulted in a record number of deaths. He conducted two burials in one week, and his children witnessed the procession of mourners filing into the graveyard, their faces pressed against the windowpane. Due to the numerous demands on his time and attention he was obliged to apply to the trustees for assistance. The Vicar of Bradford arranged for various curates from neighbouring parishes to stand in until a permanent incumbent should be found. They took to dropping in at the parsonage, at the most inopportune moments, fully expecting to be fed and entertained, and the frequency of their visits was a sore point with the family.

“Which of the Holies do we have the honour of receiving this afternoon?” enquired Branwell.

“Confounded curates” muttered Emily “They pollute every parish…must we have them to dine so frequently, Papa?”

“I cannot but think that such creatures - who fondly imagine their pastoral duties involve taking afternoon tea with the landed gentry - are anything but a burden to you, Papa” observed Charlotte indignantly “Do they visit the sick or the destitute?”

“I’m afraid there is a great deal of truth in what you say” conceded Patrick “We have of late been plagued with a veritable swarm of these locusts who seem more interested in sampling Tabby’s custards and fruit tarts than ministering to the poor” He sighed “I find their discourse wearisome beyond measure. However we must tolerate their company, however irksome, until such time as I can procure suitable lodgings for them”

“They are so very high and mighty” remarked Charlotte “and I do not think Tabby cares to be addressed as “Woman” or to be ordered about so. I think she would be quite justified in accidentally tipping a tureen of soup over their conceited heads” Patrick chuckled. His children amused him with their forthright opinions; he was aware of having invited such comments by referring to the curates as a “plague of locusts”, but secretly relished their irreverent tone, not through any want of piety but quite the reverse. He took religion far too seriously to confuse his calling with social advancement and self-aggrandisement, and was gratified that his children were capable of discerning the difference. He allowed them a great deal of latitude – both in their reading matter and self-expression - as he considered this the best way to hone their critical faculties.

Branwell rose from the table “I suppose you will have no objection, Papa, if I take myself off to the Black Bull with John Brown in search of more congenial company” Though thirteen years his senior, Branwell and the sexton had become fast friends. His father did not have time to object as a flustered Anne announced that a trio of “Holies” had just arrived at the parsonage. Whilst their brother made himself scarce, slipping out the back door, the girls helped Tabby bring in the tea things from the kitchen.

“Father says they are Tractarians, whatever that means” whispered Anne as Patrick ushered his guests into the dining room. Their aunt put in a timely appearance and took up her station at the table opposite Patrick, ready to pour the tea. Charlotte sliced the almond cake, which disappeared as soon as it was produced, and the talk soon turned to the recent outbreak of scarlet fever, which had laid low many children in the parish.

“But it is highly contagious, is it not?” objected one of their clerical guests, recoiling with horror. “Surely, ministering to the diseased is a task for the spinsters of the parish. After all, they have little else to occupy them. Our duty is to administer spiritual comfort from the pulpit”

“And for those who are too ill or infirm to attend the pulpit?” returned Patrick sharply, his innate sense of justice kindled. “In the discharge of your religious duties you will encounter much suffering and affliction. Death and disease should hold no terrors for members of the clergy”

“I say, let those twin harridans, Miss Harding and Miss Thorpe do their duty” declared Mr. Fanshaw smugly. “It is right and fitting that they should sit with the afflicted. They have no children, no husbands to care for”

“And not likely to either” cut in Mr. Hepworth “A more fearful looking virago than Miss Harding I never encountered. I nearly fainted on the spot, from sheer fright. Why, she even has whiskers on her chin...”

“A poor spinster of the parish who gives freely of her time and charity to the needy is not a fit object of your derision” interposed Patrick. “Miss Harding is doing what you have been tasked to do without benefit of remuneration from the church. Her conduct is exemplary and her actions are to be applauded, not scorned”

“She is the soul of generosity” agreed Emily pointedly “Her comeliness is neither here nor there” Mr.Fanshaw shot a look at Emily, astonishment and disapproval writ large across his features.

“I am surprised, sir, that you permit your daughters such freedom of expression. Did not Paul say ‘Let woman cover her head and be silent’? The teachings of the Church are very clear on this point”

“Let those who are followers of Paul obey his strictures. Let those who are followers of Christ follow His teachings” retorted Emily. Her aunt shot her a warning look.

“Emily, really!” There was an awkward silence during which could be heard the tinkling of teacups, before Mr. Fanshaw – wrong footed and floundering - turned to his host for moral support.

“Gentlemen, let us repair to my study” suggested Patrick tactfully, mindful that the dining room was becoming overcrowded, and that Emily was exhibiting symptoms of mutiny.

After their visitors had gone, their father attempted to explain the principal tenets of Tractarianism to his youngest daughter. “It is akin to the Apostolic succession in that the church’s authority is traced back to the Apostles. But be on your guard, for thereby lies the slippery slope to Papism….”

“What is your principal objection to Roman Catholicism, Papa?” asked Anne earnestly. She really wanted to understand doctrinal differences, not just because she would be required to teach at the Sunday school, but because her faith was a fundamental part of her makeup. More than any of the others she was assiduous in her Bible studies, and listened attentively to her father’s sermons in church. She did not want to miss anything that might be crucial, or that might help to strengthen her belief.

“Instead of allowing individuals to interpret the Scriptures for themselves the Catholic priesthood insists that it has the sole right to interpret the Bible” replied Patrick “In Ireland where I grew up, the general populace were mazed by ignorance and superstition, a state of affairs readily encouraged by the priests who opposed any education for the masses. Papism relies on church ritual and the outer forms of religious observance, but the essence of baptism is the inner spiritual cleansing of the heart by the Holy Ghost…”

Chapter Three – 1834 -1836

On a fine August evening the entire family set off to attend a performance of one of Handel’s oratorios. “The first time I ever heard sacred music was when I was a student at St. John’s, Cambridge” Patrick told them “I have never forgotten the uplifting and sublime effect it had on me” At the concert they spotted the celebrated Joseph Bentley Leyland, a young Halifax sculptor who had made a name for himself in the art world with his gargantuan and brooding head of Satan. In the intermission Branwell boldly accosted him, introducing himself as the Minister’s son.

“May I say how much I admire your colossal work, sir. Have you read The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner by James Hogg?” Leyland looked somewhat surprised, but answered politely in the affirmative.

“Look at Branwell” said Anne to her sisters “I should be much too timid to approach such a well-known artist” Their brother was conversing with Leyland as though they were old friends.

“If you are interested in art, I would recommend the exhibition next week where Robinson’s pictures will be on show…” they heard Leyland saying to Branwell.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure” responded Branwell “I shall make a point of attending” The upshot was that they all attended the art gallery the following week. Seeing his son’s enthusiasm, Patrick decided to engage Robinson as tutor. On the way home Branwell expressed his desire to embark on a career as an artist.

“If I make good progress, maybe I could apply to the Royal Academy of Art in London. I will be eighteen in March, and with decent references from Robinson-”

“We will see” said his father, more cautiously. “To make a career in art requires not only talent but application and much sacrifice” Over the next few weeks Branwell devoured Boswell’s Life of Johnson and pored over maps of London, committing to memory the warren of mews and labyrinthine alleys until he knew the streets of London off by heart. In his imagination he had conjured up a picture of coffee-houses and inns where he would mingle with other like-minded artists and authors.

One afternoon Branwell announced his intention of painting a portrait of his sisters. When the portrait was finally unveiled, it drew a mixed reaction from the family. Patrick declared it “a good likeness” and suggested it be hung in the front parlour. Anne was pleased with her portrait, but she was generally easy to please, so Branwell looked inquiringly at his other two sisters for a more critical judgment. Charlotte said she thought it slightly “unflattering” (voiced with some hesitation, as she was not vain about her looks) as Branwell had made her singularly unattractive and plain. Unlike her two younger sisters, she wore her hair in ringlets – a style which did nothing to soften the squareness of her jaw or the broadness of her forehead.

“No, it is a true likeness” insisted Branwell, rather unkindly.

“But you have not portrayed her beautiful eyes” chided Emily, looking at her brother and then her older sister “Her eyes speak her soul”

“It is of no consequence” shrugged Charlotte with a show of indifference. “I am well satisfied with the portrait”. Later than evening she wrote in her diary:“It is true I am small of stature, and plain compared to Emily, who is the tallest next to Father. Emily puts no store by personal appearance, although she is generally acknowledged to be the handsomest of us all, with a high clear forehead, aquiline nose, fine dark eyes and brows. She is always quick to defend me from any personal slights. She says I am as dainty as a fairy and that my eyes are “arresting”. Like Anne and myself Branwell is also slight of stature, with an unruly mane of sandy hair: he does not possess Papa’s uncommon height, upright carriage and striking countenance. Branwell is very conscious that he is not made of heroic proportions - the sort that are most pleasing to the fair sex – but I would never have alluded to this openly so as to spare his feelings. But my feelings are nothing to him. From this incident I have observed that boys have more self-conceit than girls, and are less compassionate.”

Early in 1835 Charlotte received an unexpected invitation from Margaret Wooler to teach at Roe Head. In return for reduced wages, Miss Wooler offered free instruction for one of her sisters.

“What do you think, Papa?” she asked, showing him the letter.

“Well, my dear, Miss Wooler always seemed to me a sensible woman – one whom you could respect as an employer – but you are nearly nineteen, so you must make up your own mind”

“I shall accept” decided Charlotte “I will be able to see Ellen as the Nusseys live nearby, and Emily will benefit too: she can attend Roe Head at the same time as a pupil” Emily would have been quite content to remain at home, and was not nearly so enthusiastic at her sister’s proposition, but at seventeen she realised it was a good opportunity to acquire more instruction.

In April the Whigs were returned to power under the leadership of Lord Melbourne. Patrick deplored the level of violence which accompanied the elections, with rowdy drunken elements heckling the speakers. His son looked on from the local hustings, enjoying the spectacle. “Some of those fellows need a good thrashing. The Tory candidate cannot get a word in edgeways”

“Even if we find the opposing viewpoint abhorrent we must nevertheless allow peoples’ voices to be heard: freedom of speech is a prerequisite of a civilised society” replied Patrick. He had been campaigning for a Temperance Society in Haworth for some time: like his predecessors, he could not help but be aware of the evils and misery attendant on excessive alcohol consumption. The society had been inaugurated in late 1834 and his son appointed as one of three secretaries. When the latter related this to John Brown the young sexton laughed heartily.

“You, Secretary of the Temperance Society! Let us celebrate with a bowl of punch in the White Lion. Digging graves gives a man a devilish thirst.”

Once the election furore had died down, Branwell incorporated the recent political disturbances into his “infernal” realm. The Kingdom of Angria now became threatened by a Reform Ministry and was faced with a stark choice: the abolition of Angria’s ancient monarchy and laws - which would be subsumed in that of the new ministry - or complete severance, thereby forfeiting valuable estates and income. Branwell plunged Angria into war against the Government forces of Verdopolis.

* * * *

Emily was not faring so well at school as her sister had done. She detested the lack of privacy, and having to sleep in the same bed with a complete stranger. Her companion tossed and turned, flailing her arms about, so that she got very little sleep. She also found it difficult to form close attachments, and kept herself to herself. Charlotte was kept so busy preparing her lessons that the sisters did not see much of each other, and Emily applied herself diligently to her studies, absorbing as much knowledge as possible. At night she dreamed she was up by Top Withens. The landscape of her imagination became more real to her than her present surroundings, and took on the outward appearance of the moors around Haworth. The crags of Ponden Kirk became a great castle in the air, and its stone chair the throne of Gondal’s haughty Queen: clumps of stunted thorn trees became vast enchanted forests with lakes and fairy grottos. The valleys were witches’ cauldrons full of swirling mist; the cairns and rocky outcrops were transformed into humble hovels, and the subterranean caverns which pitted the heath were inhabited by malevolent hobgoblins.

She had been unable to eat anything much for days and felt ungrounded and untethered, as if she were moored to the earth by a tenuous thread that might snap at any moment. One night she had the peculiar sensation that she had left her body and was soaring high above the heath like an eagle. As she swooped low, she could feel the wind rushing past and see the small creatures diving for cover through the rippling grasses with preternatural vision. Everything presented to her mind’s eye was so vivid, so brilliantly coloured and sharply delineated she no longer knew whether she was awake or dreaming. She strove with all her might to hold on to the strength of the vision, as the colours faded and grew dim. She saw her body lying rigid on the bed beneath her, and returned to it with a jolt. Her companion was leaning over her, shaking her shoulder and looking frightened.

“Emily, what is the matter? You were so still, like a corpse”

“Leave off shaking me. I am alright” For several nights afterwards she tried to recapture the sensations of that first disembodied flight, with varying degrees of success. She shut her eyes but crazed oneiric images pursued her: witches fomenting strife with thyrsi of blackthorn and ivy. White hounds with flaming eyes leapt across the back of her retina. In snatched moments of privacy she sketched scenes from Gondal, and penned fragments of poetry in an indecipherable script, safe from prying eyes. But nothing could compensate for the loss of her liberty, the familiar surroundings of home, and the companionship of her beloved dog. Eventually, she became so homesick that Charlotte became alarmed for her sister’s health. Emily seemed on the verge of collapse: she was pale and thin, refusing food. “If she does not return to Haworth, I really fear she might die” she wrote to her father. Patrick had already lost a wife and two daughters, and was not prepared to tempt Providence, so Emily returned home in October 1835 after only three months at Roe Head. As the stagecoach jolted and bumped along the turnpike, her cheek pressed against the glass pane, she picked out the old familiar contours and enduring masonry of the humped packhorse bridges. The landscape unfurled before her eyes like a richly coloured mediaeval scroll with its purple, emerald and bronze tints.

After only a week at home Emily’s health improved rapidly. In response to a solicitous letter from Ellen enquiring after her sister, Charlotte wrote: “She has recovered all her old strength and stamina. She should have been a General or at the very least a captain of yeomanry: often covering 12 miles in a day with Keeper at her heels, she disdains a life of ease and indolence. I confess that neither Anne nor I are tempted outdoors when it is so bitterly cold: we sit by the fire and read French novels by the dozen: despite the execrable plots we are able to improve our fluency in that language, which will doubtless come in useful when we are required to go out and earn our livelihoods. Papa has been much troubled of late by the Dissenters, who no longer wish to contribute to Church tithes although they still avail themselves of Anglican baptisms and burials, which my father is obliged to perform. His argument is that reform of the established church is needed, not its wholesale destruction, with which sentiment I heartily agree. My brother has requested a further course of art lessons with Mr. Robinson, to which my father readily acquiesced. It seems sensible for Branwell to defer his journey to London until next year, as this will give him a better preparation for entry to the Royal Academy of Art….”

Whilst her sisters ventured no further than the village, Emily sought the less-frequented and high lonely places on the moors, often toiling up to Top Withens, where she found most of the inspiration for her poetry. The rich cadences of her verse matched the pounding of her heart and the tempo of her pace. As she marched, she beat out the rhythm in her head like a military tattoo. And then, once she attained the summit, the mad headlong dash down the slope: the words were like a mighty pulse, or the galloping of hooves - the rushing of the wind, and the roaring of the water as it flashed and tumbled down the rocks.

High waving heather, ‘neath stormy blasts bending,

Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars;

Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,

Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,

Man’s spirit away from its drear dungeon sending,

Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.

All down the mountain sides, wild forest lending

One mighty voice to the life-giving wind;

Rivers their banks in the jubilee rending,

Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending,

Wider and deeper their waters extending,

Leaving a desolate desert behind.

Shining and lowering and swelling and dying,

Changing for ever from midnight to noon;

Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing,

Shadows on shadows advancing and flying,

Lightning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying,

Coming as swiftly and fading as soon.

Hearing that James Hogg, one of his favourite contributors to Blackwood’s, had left the magazine, Branwell wrote to the editors asking them to consider employing him as a replacement. Patrick was slightly amused at his son’s audacity, and not surprised when he received no reply. Spurred on by the discovery that her brother had been successful in getting some of his verses published in local papers, Charlotte sent specimens of her own verse to Southey in December, soliciting his opinion. She was amazed and gratified to receive a reply, noting in her diary that it was “a queer letter in which he recognises my talent but advises me not to write as a woman nor to seek celebrity” Charlotte was bemused. Did he mean that women should be content with a life of domesticity and not seek to become authors, or did he mean that she should write as a man, and not as a woman? Preferring to interpret his meaning in accordance with her own desires - although it was evident from the substance of his letter that he intended the opposite - Charlotte thanked him in respectful terms for taking the trouble to reply, but privately resolved to ignore his advice. If Southey deemed celebrity to be such a bad thing, why had he accepted the honour of Poet Laureate in public recognition of his services to literature? Men were strange creatures, she thought. They imagined women to be so very different from themselves.

Charlotte was back home for the holidays, and as aunt Elizabeth had decided to spend a fortnight with her married sister in Penzance, she invited Ellen to join them for the week just before Christmas. Even Branwell was excited at the prospect of a visitor, and although he affected nonchalance, kept glancing up at the sound of hooves on the cobblestones. Emily was reserved at first, as usual, and Anne just as shy. But when Tabby brought in a jug of mulled wine with a plate of buttered oatcakes and gingerbread, the conversation took a more sprightly turn. Ellen livened things up by proposing a game of musical chairs, with Branwell accompanying them on the piano, thundering out the chords.

“We don’t normally play indoor games” admitted Charlotte during a lull in the music, her cheeks flushed with the exertion “It is quite a novelty for us”

“I suppose you all engage in quiet scholarly pursuits, such as reading and writing”

“We used to play blind man’s buff amidst the tombstones when we were children, but aunt doesn’t like anything too noisy” said Anne. None of them saw fit to mention their imaginary worlds of Angria and Gondal, which took up most of their waking moments.

“And Papa’s study is sacrosanct when he is at home” added Branwell “That is where he prepares all his homilies and sermons”

“At home, we roast chestnuts over the fire during the holidays. And we play charades and forfeits” said Ellen “Charlotte, you must come and stay with us next Christmas”

As the grandfather clock on the stairs chimed nine, Anne said “Any moment now Papa will look in and say ‘Don’t stay up late, children’” Scarcely a moment after she had spoken, Patrick poked his head around the door. “Goodnight, children. Don’t stay up too late” They burst into laughter after he had gone.

“Let us play pass the parcel” suggested Ellen, as an excuse to exchange presents. The fur tippets Ellen had bought the girls elicited effusive thanks – though it was unlikely they would ever wear them. They didn’t possess any elegant gowns or pelisses, preferring simple homespun garments.

“We do not go out into society, and never have occasion to wear them” said Anne.

“You could wear them to musical concerts” pointed out Branwell. “Half the time you look like quaint Quakers. Aunt will love the silk shawl, and I’m sure Papa and I will use the fur mufflers” He wrapped his present around his neck ostentatiously.

“You must have noticed Papa habitually wears a long silk cravat wrapped around his neck to ward off the cold” said Charlotte, with a laugh. She had used some of her wages to purchase presents for all the family, and these were now passed around. For her aunt she had purchased a silver-backed hairbrush. Anne and her friend Ellen were given leather diaries “to encourage you to write down your daily thoughts and feelings”, and her brother and father had expensive new fountain pens. Emily’s gift had been chosen with some care: anxious that her sister might catch a chill - since she insisted on tramping the moors in all weathers - Charlotte now presented her with a soft blue cloak of merino wool.

“You look like a Queen” said Anne admiringly, as Emily stood to fasten it around her neck.

“It is indeed wonderfully warm” said Emily “Thank you, Charlotte. It is thoughtful of you” Charlotte had never been able to afford such lavish gifts before, and she was gratified by their pleasure.

“This pen” said Branwell, waving it dramatically in the air “will win me an audience with those erudite gentlemen in Edinburgh. If I enclose a sample of my verse, they will not be able to resist” His sisters smiled. Undeterred by the lack of response Branwell had written to the editors of Blackwood’s again, citing his credentials as a potential contributor to the journal.

“Aren’t you nervous about rambling across the moors on your own?” Ellen asked Emily “Mother was at first reluctant for me to travel. She says the Chartists have been assembling secretly again and holding meetings by moonlight, although they have been expressly forbidden by Parliament to do so”

“It is safe enough during daylight hours” said Emily “Keeper is beside me at all times, and he is fierce when provoked” He had recently gone for one of the curates, who had scrambled upstairs in an exhibition of unmanly terror, much to Emily’s amusement before she called him off.

“Do you support Chartism?” Branwell now enquired of Ellen.

“I do not really know” she stammered, uncertain of what was expected of her by this clever, well-informed family. “What is it they are demanding?”

“They are demanding universal suffrage. An extension of the franchise” added Branwell, as Ellen was still looking puzzled.

“Oh yes, then I suppose it must be a good thing. But, of course, rioting is completely wicked, and we cannot sleep easily in our beds”

“For my part I hope that the Chartists’ petition is thrown out of parliament” declared Emily.

“Why, Emily?” asked Anne curiously.

“Because any suffrage which excludes women cannot be universal: why should ignorant brutes who beat their wives be enfranchised, when suffrage is to be denied to educated women?” Last week their father had travelled eight miles on foot to intervene in a domestic dispute involving a female parishioner who had implored him for help. For some time there had been rumours and reports circulating of ill usage from her husband, a mill hand who habitually drank himself into a stupor after terrorising his wife and children. Having administered a stern lecture to the miscreant, Patrick was told in no uncertain terms that Yorkshire folk don’t like outside interference or meddling in their affairs: “Who mells wi’ what another does had best go home and shoe his goose.”

“That is logical” said Branwell, with an appraising glance at Emily. “The franchise is held by the property-owning classes at present, and since some women own property in their own right, there is no reason why they shouldn’t be entitled to vote”

“To grant universal suffrage would in any case be foolish without universal education” said Charlotte “A certain level of education must be a prerequisite before people are allowed to vote. They should also have attained a certain majority, if they are to cast their vote wisely”

“What age should that be?” enquired Branwell “Do you not think that old men can be fools as much as young men?”

“Certainly, but in general age and experience counts for much more, and young people are too partisan, and too zealous in espousing their causes to be given such responsibility. Revolutionary sentiment is a disease of immature minds. I don’t think that the franchise should ever be extended to persons under the age of thirty. Were it not for the exclusion of women, I think the present system works very well”

Ellen stifled a yawn, then immediately tried to cover it up with a polite cough, causing Branwell to laugh. “Clearly, we are boring our visitor. Charlotte has a tendency to sound like the editorials of John Bull, which Father subscribes to. Besides, I believe Anne has had too much mulled wine”

“Only two glasses” insisted the latter, who was flushed and unusually animated by the novelty of company. This was the signal for them to retire. Charlotte and Ellen had annexed Aunt Branwell’s bedroom whilst she was away, which was still warm from the embers of the fire which had been lit earlier. As they were settling down for the night, Charlotte heard whispering and laughter coming from across the landing, and tiptoed across to investigate. Anne and Emily were parading up and down in their nightdresses, their new fur tippets slung around their shoulders, and pretending to be grand ladies.

“Oh, fetch me my smelling salts, my dear” Anne minced across the room, for Emily’s benefit “I’m in such a tizzy. And where is that wretched coachman? I shall be late for the ball!”

“Hush, you two” said Charlotte, giggling despite herself. Anne was so dainty and small, just like a child, that her antics were comical.

“I am so glad you are back home, Emily” said Anne, after Charlotte had bid them good night “Gondal has gone to rack and ruin, and the people are crying out for their Queen to restore order”

“Once Ellen has gone home we will go up to Sladen Beck and begin a new adventure” promised Emily, blowing out the candle.

“I would not swap the parsn’ge for…most m’nifi’cent house in Engl…” Anne’s voice – slurred and indistinct with sleep - drifted across the room in the darkness “When all…. together…. so homely” Five minutes later she was fast asleep.

Only a day after Ellen’s departure Tabby slipped on some ice in the village and broke her leg. The doctor was fetched in to set the limb, and prescribed enforced bed rest. Against his better judgement Patrick was persuaded by their aunt to send her to stay with her sister to convalesce.

“Whilst she is confined to her couch – which may be months - we must feed and clothe her at your expense” objected Elizabeth “and I don’t know that the household economy will withstand it. In the meantime we need a younger servant to do the drudgery in the kitchens, and how can we afford to keep both?”

“Surely we can get a young girl in from the village to do the scrubbing who will not require board and lodging. Tabby is a valued member of the family and it isn’t right to abandon her in her hour of need. Would her aged sister be able to provide the care she requires?” asked Patrick doubtfully.

“Let me speak to her myself” insisted Elizabeth “I’m sure she would prefer to recuperate with her sister than to be a burden upon us – and then can we send for her when she is fully recovered” Patrick agreed reluctantly. As predicted, Tabby immediately acquiesced with her employer’s wishes: “Oh, I should hate to be a burden on this household. You have all been so very kind. Let me go to my sister at once – I am longing to see her. Joseph shall take me in the cart” An indignant Emily came across Tabby in her bedchamber, weeping silent tears, and caught her up in an affectionate hug.

“Don’t fret. Everything will come right – you’ll see” She then marched off to hold a council of war with her sisters.

“It is intolerable. She has been made to feel that she is not wanted. After so many years of faithful service. The poor dear soul imagines we are sending her away for good.”

“She has been like a mother to us” agreed Anne. “We must speak to Father. Charlotte, you are the eldest and he always listens to your advice”

“I doubt whether this is of Father’s doing” said Charlotte, who was reluctant to go behind her aunt’s back.

“We must all make a stand” said Emily firmly “I for one will eat nothing until Tabby is reinstated. Not a morsel of food shall pass my lips” Eventually, encouraged by Emily’s example, all three sisters rebelled by fasting. This silent mutiny continued for two days until Patrick relented. As the resolution to send Tabby to her sister had gone against his conscience he was secretly relieved to be able to reverse his decision.

“Then there is nothing for it but to get in another servant” conceded their aunt, giving in gracefully to her brother-in-law. “But, Brother, I cannot help observing that Emily is becoming increasingly wilful. As a child she was the prettiest, but also the most capricious and headstrong. I do not think it would have entered the heads of the other two girls to rebel against any decision of yours, for they are both obedient and possessed of good sense”

“Emily is possessed of good sense” declared Patrick firmly “But she has also a keen sense of injustice. However I am glad we are in agreement to keep Tabby on, for I would not wish for any disharmony to prevail in this household”

“Indeed not” replied Elizabeth circumspectly. When Branwell heard of the reason for their mutiny, he was amused.

“So it was you who spearheaded the revolt” he remarked lightly, glancing at Emily, who still looked fierce. “Bravo, mon Capitaine. And I’m sure it has benefited your waistline” (this last an aside to Charlotte) “Perhaps I should paint your portrait anew, this time in a more flattering light”

In the New Year Anne took Emily’s place as pupil, returning to Roe Head with Charlotte, leaving Emily and Branwell at home. The latter completed his course of art lessons with William Robinson, and drafted a letter of application to the Royal Academy of Art, submitting it to his father for approval. As the day approached when he would set off on his first visit to London, Branwell was almost beside himself with excited anticipation. For months now he had been looking forward to a life of greater freedom in the capital, where he hoped to gain an entrée into its most select literary and artistic circles.

“I will raise a toast to Ben Jonson at his old haunt - the Mermaid Tavern in Cheapside” he announced to his sisters.

“Try not to emulate Ben Jonson overmuch” advised Charlotte. “He killed a fellow actor in a duel and only escaped the gallows by pleading benefit of clergy” She suspected that her brother’s interest in the Royal Academy of Art was overshadowed by his ambition to be living in the great metropolis where he would be at the heart of things.

Patrick had arranged for his son to lodge in Paternoster Row at the same coffee house where he had stayed when he came over from Ireland as a young man on his way to Cambridge – and supplied him with an ample stock of funds. On the first morning of his arrival in London, Branwell went around to the Academy and presented his application and letter of introduction from his tutor. He then found a bookshop and purchased a copy of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage by Lord Byron, before spending the rest of the day wandering around the art galleries, marvelling at the masterpieces. For a moment he was assailed by doubts, unsure as to whether he would be able to measure up to the expectations of his family. His aunt and sisters seemed to think he would succeed in whatever he attempted, but his own talent seemed so meagre and deficient when compared to that of the Old Masters. But everyone must start somewhere, he told himself briskly: he was here to study the techniques of those who had gone before him and to apply what he had learnt. With time and application he might attain a degree of mastery that would enable him to acquit himself creditably, and to progress in his chosen career. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had chosen the right profession. Still, he could but try, and surely nobody could blame him if he failed in his endeavours.

After lunching in a chophouse, where he gazed about him in awe, Branwell became restive and desirous of company. He was gregarious by nature, and now wished he had a companion of sorts. Being thrust into the heart of the metropolis with all its exotic sights and sounds was a shock to the system: as he was jostled through the great thoroughfares, surrounded by a heaving mass of humanity, he felt small and insignificant. He wanted to make a name for himself, to stand out in the world of art or literature – he cared not which - but such accolades belonged to the uncertain future. For the first time in his life he felt inexplicably lonely, and completely anonymous. Nobody knew who he was, and nobody really cared. In Haworth he had recently joined the Boxing club, chiefly because the noble art of pugilism featured so heavily in the lives of his heroes and in the pages of the magazines he read. It was therefore only natural that he should pay a visit to the Castle Tavern in Holborn, which was frequented by prizefighters.

He returned to Paternoster Row and whiled away the next hour or so in his rooms, fortifying himself with stanzas from Childe Harold until the light began to fail. Resolved to see something of the world, and with plenty of money jingling in his pockets, Branwell set off in the direction of Holborn, locating the Castle Tavern without too much difficulty. A fight was already in progress and the tavern was packed to the rafters. The spectators looked almost as fierce as the pugilists, eyes glittering with excitement as bets were made and challenges thrown down. The room was stifling and Branwell could scarcely move, hemmed in on all sides with the press of men. Everyone was drinking heavily, and the serving wenches were kept busy. Managing to catch the eye of one, who threw him a pert look, he requested malt liquor and ale, which was what most of the other patrons appeared to be drinking. Emboldened by the alcohol, he got up a conversation with a neighbour who seemed educated like himself, and they bandied comments, shouting to make themselves heard above the din and clamour. As the evening wore on Branwell found himself in an advanced state of inebriation, having readily agreed to meet his newfound companion the following night at the celebrated Mermaid Tavern.

“If you’re wanting to rub shoulders with the literary crowd they all go there” shouted his companion, who was called Edward “And the strumpets who serve the ale are all of a piece - forward pieces” he added, delighted with his own wit. He introduced Branwell to his friends - “rare good fellows” - and Branwell called for drinks all round, triumphant at having accomplished his ends. He was well on his way to making the right connections, and once he was enrolled at the Royal Academy he would have his own set of artistic friends to knock about with. The gong clanged after the last fight, and feeling somewhat unsteady on his feet, Branwell took leave of his companions, stumbling outside into the fresh air. It was by now completely dark, and he was unsure of his route back. Confused by the maze of alleys and back lanes he took several wrong turnings, and had to retrace his steps. Hopelessly lost, he eventually had to hail a hackney cab, which delivered him to his lodgings in Paternoster Row. The next morning, Branwell was sobered to discover just how much money he had spent: London was far more expensive than he had dreamed. Fortunately he had thought to leave a bundle of notes stashed beneath his mattress and would have enough to last him, if he was careful. If he consumed a large breakfast he would have no need of further sustenance, and could afford to meet up with Edward at the Mermaid later that evening. It was an experience he was resolved not to forgo, as it would undoubtedly furnish much material for his writing. In the meantime he would see whether his application to the Academy had been confirmed.

At one o’clock Branwell was ushered into a room presided over by three gentleman who sat behind an enormous oak desk. In grave tones they gave him to understand that his application had been unsuccessful. Although he showed “some promise”, it was their considered opinion that he still had much to learn, and that he was not sufficiently gifted as an artist to be admitted to the Academy: “We only take on the brightest and the best”

“I am willing to work hard, sir” stammered Branwell in dismay “I know that I am a mere novice, but with expert tuition and guidance I believe I could improve...”

“With expert tuition and guidance any amateur could improve their technique, but if we were to adopt this lax policy we would have to throw open our doors to every aspiring Tom, Dick and Harry. As I am sure you will appreciate the Academy’s aims are more lofty: we exist to nurture real talent, and bring it to fruition” As Branwell listened, crestfallen, he came to see that his initial instincts had been correct, and that he had chosen the wrong profession. “However” continued one of the examiners, who seemed more kindly disposed than his colleagues “there are many such who are turned away by the Royal Academy and who yet go on to become successful portrait painters. You may still achieve a career in painting if you so desire” Branwell nodded in resignation. All was not lost. Once back home, he would redouble his efforts to be accepted as a contributor with Blackwood’s, and would persist in his ambition to become a poet or dramatist, for he now thought that was where his true talents lay.

A full week earlier than expected, a considerably chastened Branwell boarded the stagecoach which would take him home. Virtually penniless, he had spent most of his remaining money at the Mermaid carousing with Edward and pretending to be an up and coming artist. Rather foolishly, he had confessed that whiskey was his tipple of choice rather than the more plebeian malt liquor, and as a result had run through most of his money by the end of the evening. He now considered what he would tell his father, who had encouraged his ambition and placed such hopes in him. A small part of him was relieved that he would not be attending the Academy after all. London was undoubtedly stimulating, and all he had hoped it would be, but it was also very daunting if you were not rich and well-connected. On his last day there he had visited Bedlam, out of idle curiosity and because it didn’t cost much to get in. The spectacle of manacled men being paraded for public entertainment – much like bear-baiting – was deeply disturbing. The other visitors seemed to be greatly enjoying themselves, laughing and pointing at the madmen, as they tore at their hair and mouthed obscenities, but Branwell was sickened and moved with pity for the poor wretches.

Patrick was disappointed to see his son return home with all his ambitions in tatters, and listened grimly as Branwell gave an account of what had befallen him. “So it is not to be, after all. But what became of all the money I gave you? Surely you cannot have spent it all within the space of one week, Branwell!”

“You have no idea how expensive things are in London, Papa. My lunches, the drawing materials I was obliged to purchase…” These had been “stolen” from him, Branwell claimed. Gradually, after some stern questioning, it emerged that Branwell had frequented the Castle Tavern, and had “bought some drinks for a few of the fellows”

“I was obliged to reciprocate in kind, Papa, lest they think me miserly. And I lost my bearings and had to avail myself of a hansom cab. The driver demanded an enormous tip….” Patrick didn’t need to hear any more, concluding that a week’s riotous and licentious living in Holborn was all it had taken to swallow up his funds. He discussed the matter with his sister-in-law, who was inclined to be indulgent towards her nephew. After hearing Patrick’s slightly abridged version of his son’s misadventures she became highly indignant on Branwell’s behalf.

“The examiners must be very unfeeling men with impossibly high standards not to give him a chance. I’m sure Branwell could excel at anything he turned his mind to. And as to that unfortunate business in the tavern, it very much sounds as if the poor boy was robbed blind: I don’t doubt the rogues took full advantage of his youth and inexperience” Notwithstanding, the family’s erstwhile plans for Branwell to attend the Royal Academy had to be relinquished, and Patrick did not care to repeat the experiment. It was decided that the wisest course of action would be for Branwell to look around for employment more commensurate with his abilities and closer to home, with less distractions than London had to offer.

Soon afterwards, Branwell obtained a temporary position as usher at a boys’ school, after answering an advertisement in the Bradford paper, but lost no time in giving up the situation and returning home: his tawny mane had been the butt of numerous jokes by pupils. In vain he had tried to inculcate an appreciation of Shakespeare. The famous lines from Julius Caesar had occasioned the usual schoolboy sniggers:

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world

Like a Colossus; and we petty men

Walk under his huge legs, and peep about

“Branwell, tell us your news” urged Anne, over the breakfast table. The family were briefly reunited for the Easter break, with Anne and Charlotte home for a week

“I find that teaching refractory pupils without an ounce of intelligence does not agree with me. I would rather box their ears or apply the birch rod to drum some sense into their hollow brainpans. A more odious set of dullards and lackwits I have never encountered” Emily and Anne were soon reduced to tears of laughter as Branwell recounted his experiences, mimicking the masters.

“Surely it cannot have been that bad” said Charlotte, smiling despite herself “I think Father is rather disappointed that you have not lasted very long”

“Then he must find me a position which is more congenial. I refuse to labour in a school ever again. I will end up murdering the pupils, and you will see the end result for yourselves: a corpse dangling from a gibbet.”

“At least you left of your own free will and were not dismissed” observed Anne.

“Well, I suppose I must go and give an account of myself” sighed Branwell “Where is the old Cossack – composing sermons in his study as usual?” Their father had been late to bed, having arrived home in the early hours long after Branwell had returned home the previous evening. A child of the parish had fallen under the huge hooves of a dray-horse, suffering a severe head injury, and was not expected to last the night. Patrick had administered the last rites and what comfort he could to the distraught parents.

“The old Cossack stands right behind you” replied Patrick sardonically, who had slipped into the room quietly, and was now towering over his son’s shoulder. “In my youth I was called up as volunteer to resist invasion by the French, alongside Lord Palmerston, mark you”

“Do you not ever wonder, Father, whether you might have been better suited to a military life, than as a minister?” enquired Branwell.

“Briefly, but I soon dismissed it from my thoughts. Those ordained to the ministry have a unique calling: not to truckle to the mob or curry favour with the powerful. I received your last communication, Branwell, and am therefore not surprised to see you. I have given the matter some thought, and agree that a school-teaching post would not be beneficial to either party. I am baffled as who would suffer most, you or your unfortunate pupils” Anne giggled.

“Branwell, dear, come and play the piano. I do so love to hear you play” said Aunt Branwell. She enjoyed having her clever nephew all to herself, and listened sympathetically to his all hopes and dreams for the future, which at this stage included an ambitious tour of the Continent, following in the footsteps of the Romantics poets. Later that afternoon she tentatively put forward the proposal to Patrick, who sighed. His sister-in-law’s suggestions were generally impracticable, and Branwell was so plausible in his arguments that she tended to fall in with her nephew’s schemes, without giving the matter proper consideration. “I’m afraid dear Branwell will never get on unless he is able to obtain the patronage of some well-connected people, but if he were provided with certain letters of introduction…”

“Letters from whom? I have clerical connections but Branwell has no ambitions in that quarter. The cost of such a tour would be prohibitive, and to what purpose? Do you imagine he will be welcomed with open arms by people who have never heard of him?” Branwell wrote to Blackwoods once again requesting an interview, to no avail. Since several of his poems had been published in local papers under his Angrian nom de plume “Northangerland”, he decided to send some verses to Wordsworth - waiting in vain for a reply. Perhaps as a token recognition of the necessity for further “connections”, Branwell was initiated into Haworth’s Masonic Lodge of the Three Graces, where he acted as Secretary and was also able to show off his musical talents by playing the organ at celebratory dinners. In April he was promoted to the degree of Fellowcraft on the recommendation of John Brown, who was already Worshipful Master, and five days later to Master Mason.

Hearing that Branwell was lately returned from London John Hunter Thompson - a fellow pupil of Robinson - sent a message up to the parsonage requesting the pleasure of his company at the Black Bull. Branwell needed no further encouragement and set off down the hill at a run: he could seldom resist the lure of convivial company. Upon entering the warm fug of the inn, he and his companion were soon ensconced within their favourite snug beneath the smoke-blackened rafters, a bowl of punch set before them.

“How fare you, old knave of trumps?” enquired John, offering a cigar.

“Fair to middling. There is not another single educated family hereabouts, and as I am confined to that living mausoleum with my sisters and aging father, I must seek diversion where I can”

“And what of the Great Whore of Babylon?” continued John, eager to hear of his experiences in the capital. Wishing to appear as a man of the world, Branwell treated his friend to a highly exaggerated account.

“I made the acquaintance of several saucy wenches at the Mermaid Tavern, who cheerfully relieved me of the contents of my purse, and as to the Castle Tavern in Holborn, I did not think I would get out of there alive! The men in there were as fierce as pirates and chiefly belonging to the lower orders: a drunken brawl broke out, and one man’s teeth were knocked to the back of his head, which was nothing compared to the punishment being dished out in the ring: one of the fighters was carried out on a stretcher, and a surgeon fetched to bandage up another. All in all, it was like something out of the pages of Ben Jonson” His friend looked suitably impressed.

“So, are you to be admitted as student at the Royal Academy of Art?” Branwell tossed off his brandy and shrugged.

“I have no rich patrons and my father cannot afford to send me there” A farmer sat at an oaken settle close by with a tankard of ale, gnawing at a hunk of unleavened bread, his fowling-piece propped against the table. A great mastiff sat at his feet, to whom he occasional tossed a few crusts. His companion was clad in a belted fustian tunic, and at sight of Branwell they both began reminiscing about old Grimshaw, a former minister of Haworth, and notorious for his exhortations to temperance and sobriety.

“Aye, he were a right stiff ‘un, wi’ his fiery damning speeches. Chased us young fellas out of the ale-house wi’ a horsewhip, even dragged me from my bed one Sunday morn in my nightshirt wi’ no britches”

“Salt of the earth” agreed his companion “Allus said it were for our own good, he had the care of our souls and he weren’t going to see the divil make off wi’ nary a one of his flock whilst he were minister. But yon vicar’s a good un, too” he added with a glance in Branwell’s direction “The missus looks forward to his sermons, and I looks forward to a good snooze” Branwell chortled upon hearing this.

“Father spends many hours preparing his sermons. I am sure he would be gratified to hear that they reach an appreciative audience”

“Have you heard back from Southey yet?” enquired John. Branwell had written to the latter, soliciting his opinion on some verse he had written.

“One epistle, which was nicely worded. I have it here” Branwell pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and carelessly tossed it to John, who raised his brows.

“What does he mean by rhodomontade?”

“I know not and care less, but at least he has had the courtesy to respond. The Leeds Mercury deigned to publish some verses I have penned. My sisters have pasted these into a scrapbook as mementos to be treasured” Branwell smiled “It is as well, you know, to have such fond sisters, who imagine strong passions betoken genius. I lately submitted a lengthy composition to the editors of Blackwood’s, after the epic style of Childe Harold, which I flatter myself was not entirely devoid of merit. But I have heard nothing. Not one word of encouragement from those revered gentlemen” repeated Branwell bitterly “Damn their eyes! I do not ask for inordinate praise, just some small token of recognition would suffice to satisfy me that my labours were not in vain. I was obliged to write once more to enquire whether they had received the same. But I might as well have fired off my missive to the moon. Nothing, I tell you, not even a cursory acknowledgement. Do you call that gentlemanly conduct? A plague on them all - ciphers and quidnuncs who set themselves up as arbitrators of public taste. They are all of a piece - Pharisees who should be hung without benefit of clergy!”

“Hung? Come, that is a rather harsh pronouncement”

“It is no less than they deserve!” cried Branwell, who had been drinking steadily for the past hour “It is nought to them if they consign to the gutter any hapless young poet who aspires to express himself in verse. Have you read the biography of Chatterton’s sordid young life? Dashed down into the dread depths of Gehenna – but what does it signify to these smug gentlemen?” Branwell’s bitter tirades were apt to last for a full twenty minutes, allowing for no interruptions. By this time he had gathered a small crowd about him who were curious to hear more. As the minister’s son who moreover claimed a spurious acquaintance with Southey – based solely on the latter’s perfunctory response to one of his letters – Branwell was listened to with respect. Southey was known to be a good friend of Wordsworth and Coleridge and if he was on intimate terms with such great poets, then it followed that he must possess great gifts himself. He did indeed possess a quite astonishing gift of erudition and had many verses off by rote, declaiming aloud passages from Shakespeare and leaving his audience spellbound.

“’Tis truly marvellous” was the general verdict of those too ignorant to know better. “He will come to fame and fortune easily, and we are hearing at first hand a young poet in the making. He may yet turn out to be another Shakespeare” The landlord, Dan Sugden - also known as “Little Nosey” - did nothing to discourage the general opinion since Branwell enlivened the company and attracted new custom. His popularity was due in no small measure to his habit of discoursing to all and sundry, holding forth on topics culled from the pages of Blackwood’s or Fraser’s Magazines. He could express himself in broad Yorkshire dialect, issuing a stream of profanities and oaths as he called for another tumbler of negus, before reverting to the most pristine English that was ever uttered within the precincts of a Cambridge quadrangle. Branwell now called for drinks all round, waving away the expense.

“I find myself marooned in this priest-ridden morass, this hell-forsaken backwater whilst a monstrous debauchee straddles the throne like a pox-ridden whore ….” At this, a bystander who happened to be a staunch monarchist could bear to hear no more, and struck Branwell a mighty blow.

“Shut thy great blaspheming trap! Call th’self a gennleman, do ye? That’ll learn ye” Branwell toppled from his perch, where he lay insensible for several moments until his friend hauled him to his feet. John thought it was unlikely Branwell had confused the previous monarch – who was known for his profligacy – with his successor, who had reigned for the past six years. The slander was probably quite deliberate, and not the result of a mind befuddled by intoxication. In his self-appointed role as Devil’s Advocate, Branwell liked nothing better than to provoke his listeners until the rafters resounded with dreadful imprecations. He was quite capable of reducing a room to anarchy and uproar, and once the sensibilities of the crowd had been wrought to fever pitch, he would assume a look of injured innocence.

“Is the parson’s son hurt?” demanded Sugden “There’ll be hell to pay if ye’ve injured the lad, ye girt lump. Is he stirring?” There was talk of sending for a constable and the landlord acted quickly to soothe tempers. Branwell raised his head for answer, looking about him with some satisfaction at the tumult he had raised.

“I’ll not stand by and hear the King spoken of in sich terms. There’s speaking one’s mind - as I allus do - and thee well knows it, Gilbert, so lay off thy hands! And there’s blaspheming”

“One can only blaspheme against God, not a reigning monarch” corrected Branwell, who had by now regained his seat and was none the worse for wear “Monarch or mendicant – it makes no difference to me – they are equally culpable in the sight of God. Treason is the word you are seeking, my good fellow”

“A traitor then!” cried his accuser triumphantly “Snared and entrapped by thy own admission! ”

“So be it. I am a traitor to sobriety and common sense. What man amongst you isn’t?” Branwell raised his glass composedly. “More punch, landlord” This had the effect of silencing all objectors, who were quite happy to carry on drinking at Branwell’s expense.

Chapter Four – 1837 - 1839>

In June 1837 a general election was called on the death of William IV and accession of Victoria. Tory supporters were in a minority in the West Riding district of Yorkshire, and vastly outnumbered by Whig supporters who shouted them down. When Patrick tried to question one of the Whig candidates, a Lord Morpeth, such an uproar and din ensued that Branwell flew into a passion, and yelled “If you won’t let my father speak you shan’t speak either!”

“If that be the vicar’s son I’ll gi’ him a sore head to remember” threatened one of the hecklers. As the crowd grew more belligerent, Patrick grimly pulled his son out of harm’s way and calmly continued to question the speaker. As secretary for the local Conservative Committee Branwell regularly placed his head above the parapet, arguing his cause ably and fluently. This enraged his political opponents, and one afternoon Branwell witnessed his effigy being carried through the main street and burned, like Guy Fawkes. Branwell rushed home excitedly to report the phenomenon to his father:

“Papa, I am become famous. They HATE me!” Accustomed to being doted on by his family, unpopularity was an entirely novel sensation for him.

“Wilberforce’s effigy was also burnt” rejoined his father, mistaking his son’s astonishment for distress. “The abolition of slavery throughout the empire was bitterly opposed by rich merchants and traders who profit from this evil trafficking in human misery, but we must continue to campaign for what we believe to be right” Morpeth was returned as member of Parliament for West Riding and Lord Melbourne’s Whig ministry resumed office. Patrick immediately called a meeting of Haworth residents to petition Parliament to repeal the Poor Law Amendment Act, which he considered to be “unconstitutional”. Administered centrally by London commissioners, the provisions of the Act meant that the destitute could only obtain assistance by entering a workhouse. Having witnessed at first-hand the misery caused by the enactment of this legislation - which ran counter to all his charitable instincts - Patrick continued his campaign through the newspapers, but was unsuccessful in getting it repealed.

“What has been happening in Gondal and Angria?” Charlotte wrote plaintively to Emily from Roe Head in August. She was finding her work as a teacher unspeakably dreary, and becoming increasingly resentful of the demands imposed upon her attention and time. At this time of year when the weather was so glorious she longed for release: “…The thought came over me am I to spend all the best part of my life in this wretched bondage, forcibly suppressing my rage at the idleness the apathy and the hyperbolical and most asinine stupidity of these fatheaded oafs and on compulsion assuming an air of kindness, patience and assiduity…Write to me! Anne especially desires to know how the denizens of Gondal fare….” Emily passed the letter on to her brother, as was intended. She had little involvement in Charlotte and Branwell’s private world of Angria, but wrote a short piece on Gondal for Anne’s benefit:

The powerful Queen of Gondal sat on her granite throne, high above Hawks Moor, and surveyed the ragged and filthy prisoner, whose wild straggly hair nearly obscured her face. The gaoler gave his bound captive a shove, so that she fell forward onto the heath.

“On your knees, Devil’s whore!” Queen Augusta turned her attention to the Witchfinder General, a tall gaunt man with malevolent slits for eyes.

“What does this wretched creature stand accused of?” The creature, who looked anything but cowed, raised her chin defiantly.

“I have been accused of blighting the harvest and bewitching my neighbours’ cattle. I plead guilty to all charges. My neighbours are the most despicable and ignorant specimens of human excrement you could ever wish to meet. They have made my life a living hell for these past fifteen years, with their whispering, their spiteful taunts and stone-throwing. I took great delight in frightening them” The witch cackled with glee “I HATE them, your Majesty, and I would do it all over again, just for the sheer satisfaction of seeing the terror in their eyes…” The assembled crowd gasped at such depravity. The Queen smiled slowly. It was a cruel smile, and well known to those of her subjects who had experienced the royal displeasure.

“What should we do with her?” she asked the Witchfinder.

“It is written that thou shalt not suffer a witch to live” replied the Witchfinder, his eyes glittering with malice “I say, put her to the stake, your Majesty” Burn her, burn her, chanted the crowd, the cries growing louder as they became emboldened. The Queen raised a hand for silence then turned to the witch, who continued to stare at her insolently.

“Come hither” The witch hobbled up to the throne, and stood there, scowling.

“Have you no shame?” asked the Queen.

“None whatsoever”

“I like you well” continued the Queen, a capricious smile playing about her lips “You shall be admitted to my Privy Council and accorded the highest honours in the land” A gasp of astonishment greeted this announcement. The Queen then pointed at the Witchfinder, who had turned pale with shock.

“Seize him!” Her guards rushed forward “Cast this withered spawn of Satan into the deepest depths of Black Stump Bog”

Branwell enclosed a history of the latest Angrian developments along with Emily’s letter. The Verdopolitan Reform Ministry had invaded Angria, and placed its citizens under martial law. Branwell’s alias, the Earl of Northangerland, was now in control of the French-style Provisional Government of the Grand Republican Union, which ushered in a reign of terror. The expulsion of Angria from the new republic took place shortly after the monarchist forces had declared war on the Reform Ministry. The Kingdom of Angria was reinstated in lands farther to the east, with its new capital Adrianopolis, and the Duke of Zamorna (Charlotte’s hero) was outlawed.

“What do you think?” he asked Emily, as they sat in the parlour.

“There is too much of the real world and too little of the other” was Emily’s verdict. She was bored by the endless wars and the political machinations that characterised Angria: she preferred to keep her imaginary realm of Gondal quite distinct from the everyday world.

“For me, it is different: the one informs the other” said Branwell. Upon receiving her brother’s revised version of events, Charlotte immediately set about trying to rectify matters: the Constitutional forces led by the Duke of Zamorna were now arrayed against the Republican forces, and were eventually successful in driving them from Angria. The Duke’s erstwhile enemy, the Earl of Northangerland, reluctantly accepted the position of Prime Minister. “In accordance with the sage counsel Keep your enemies close this troublesome opponent shall be subordinate to Zamorna, where his latent treachery will be more readily apparent” she wrote. “The Duke does not fully trust him, of course, but he will in future be able to keep a watchful eye on him”

In September 1837 Branwell attended a lecture on phrenology with his father at the Mechanics Institute in Keighley. As a result, the newly-appointed Prime Minister of Angria promptly enlisted the services of a sinister phrenologist who stalked the corridors of power, striking terror into the hearts of the nobles: he was able to discover their innermost secrets by running his hands over their cranial bumps and protrusions. None was safe from his probing, and as a result, several high-born ladies and lords were incarcerated in the tower for plotting against the regime. Northangerland was thus able to dispose of his enemies at court in one fell swoop, under the legitimate screen of safeguarding the Duke’s interests. After reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein Branwell re-christened his phrenologist Dr. Frankel, and had him conduct hideous experiments deep in the tower’s subterranean vaults, where he attempted to reanimate corpses by means of galvanism.

Unlike Emily, Anne had managed to make some friends at school. Her unaffected modesty and amiable disposition made her a favourite with the other girls. In the dormitory at night she read out passages from the Castle of Otranto to her best friend, who was enthralled but too idle to read it herself.

“But how does Isabella escape the clutches of the wicked count?” pressed Julia “I must know what happens next”

“She flees through a secret passage which leads from the castle crypts to a church, where she intends to throw herself on the mercy of the holy virgins in the convent nearby” replied Anne “Now listen-”

“-Is Prince Manfred handsome?” interrupted Julia.

“I do not know, but he is extremely dissolute and shows no remorse for his debauched and depraved conduct. If you keep interrupting, you will miss the best part….”

Upon hearing of this harmless pastime, Charlotte warned her younger sister against reading too many Gothic horror tales: “the literary style is slapdash, and wants maturity: the fulsome descriptions of such authors may have a deleterious effect on your style of composition. You should read Sir Walter Scott…” In silent rebellion against her older sister’s attempts to control her, Anne wrote in her journal “Just because she is now a teacher, Charlotte thinks she knows best. She has read many Gothic novels herself, and it has not affected her style, so I don’t know why she should she think me any more susceptible. Besides, I am not sure that she is always right: Miss Wooler says Jane Austen is a very superior novelist, but Charlotte disdains her, preferring Sir Walter Scott. Well, I have just finished reading Emma and I fully concur with Miss Wooler…”

It was far better to be a pupil than a teacher, reflected Charlotte, envying the younger girls their carefree chatter as she toiled over her books. Once they had finished their lessons they were free to do as they wished, whereas she often laboured well into the night, marking essays and preparing exercises for the following day. Her teaching duties left her very little time to pursue her own interests. Encouraged by the knowledge that she would soon be home for the Christmas holidays, Charlotte wrote another letter to Emily, enclosing the first two stanzas of a poem she had begun:

We wove a web in childhood,

A web of sunny air;

We dug a spring in infancy

Of water pure and fair;

We sowed in youth a mustard seed,

We cut an almond rod;

We are now grown up to riper age

Are they withered in the sod?

“As you can see I still resort to scribblomania during my scant leisure hours, and the poem is a hymn, of sorts, to the creative powers of the imagination… The visions would come to me suddenly and I would fall into a reverie such as to render me wholly unfit for my teaching duties. I would fain borrow from bright imagination what dull reality could not supply…it won’t be long now before we are all together again..”

Anne persevered as a pupil at Roe Head for two years but then seemed to succumb to the same homesickness as Emily, with alarming physical manifestations. Anne appeared to have suffered some sort of religious crisis – brought on by her increasing exposure to the harsh tenets of Calvinism propagated by their circle of acquaintances. Since the Nusseys lived nearby it was natural for Charlotte and Anne to associate freely with the family, which included Ellen’s brother Henry – now curate of Dewsbury - and his clerical friends. Two of Miss Wooler’s sisters who taught at the school had married clergymen, who exerted a considerable influence over the curriculum. The fiery sermons they preached filled Anne with terror and she found her own personal faith severely challenged. Miss Wooler, with her robust constitution, found it difficult to sympathise with or comprehend Anne’s illness, but nevertheless called in a doctor. “The doctor has pronounced a severe attack of gastric fever” Charlotte wrote to her father, going on to explain her sister’s religious doubts and anxieties. “I fear a complete breakdown in her health if she remains here much longer…”

“A convenient excuse for Charlotte to throw over her position” commented Branwell cynically to Emily, after reading the letter “though I don’t doubt Anne’s suffering for one moment. She takes religious matters far too seriously”

Although Anne continued to read Gothic novels for the amusement of her classmates, her own private readings were of a much more serious nature, consisting of Lives of the Saints, The Imitation of Christ by Thomas a Kempis, St. Augustine’s City of God, and various religious tracts made freely available to the pupils.

“She is always praying” said Julia, in response to Charlotte’s anxious queries “And when she is not praying she cries at night. You must do something” Miss Wooler – cool and rational as always - tried to calm Charlotte’s fears, to no avail. In hot defence of her younger sister, Charlotte spoke out with unusual vehemence, resulting in the only serious falling-out she had ever had with her employer, and both sisters returned home soon afterwards in December. Before leaving Roe Head Charlotte and Miss Wooler had made up their quarrel: her employer had learned something of the family history from Ellen Nussey, and what had befallen Charlotte’s older sisters over twelve years ago, and was now inclined to be more understanding.

“You must know, I have a very high regard for your teaching abilities. Even if Anne is unable to return, owing to a too sensitive and highly-strung nature where religious matters are concerned, you would be sorely missed – not only by your pupils but by myself.” Somewhat mollified and already regretting her impetuosity, Charlotte agreed - with a heavy heart - to resume her teaching duties after the holidays. There was too much mutual respect between them for her to depart on bad terms, and she could not afford to waste such valuable testimonials, which could prove useful in her future career.

Anne’s health was still delicate and Patrick agreed that “dear little Anne” should stay at home and not return to Roe Head in the New Year. January was one of the coldest months on record, and each morning they gazed out upon a frostbound demesne, huddling around the kitchen range for warmth. Miss Wooler’s school had now removed to Heald’s House at Dewsbury Moor, and at the end of January Charlotte set off again, this time on her own - her gloomy mood reflected by the pall of winter. The coach driver proceeded cautiously along the icy roads, trying to calm the nervous horses, and the journey seemed interminable. She got through the first term under a cloud of depression, performing her monotonous tasks like an automaton. Without Emily or Anne for company she felt isolated, and the intrigues and imbroglios of the Angrian court no longer sufficed to satisfy her creative longings. She had outgrown her juvenile pastimes and was full of anxiety for what the future might hold. Although she still saw as much of Ellen as possible, the latter was unable to emulate her intellectual interests. Seeing her despondency, her other friend Mary Taylor tried to offer encouragement.

“Strive for independence. With your educational attainments, you need not be an old maid dependent on the charity of others. I, for one, do not intend to be married”

“I must be one or the other” replied Charlotte “I know that I possess a plain and unprepossessing appearance (here Mary did not contradict her) so I have already resigned myself to spinsterhood, but I should nevertheless like to do something useful with my life”

“You will” insisted Mary “You need only stick it out for a little while longer. Then perhaps you will find a more congenial position”

“More teaching, I presume” sighed Charlotte wearily, whose distaste for her refractory pupils was hardening into repugnance. She suffered acutely from headaches, for which there was no apparent remedy. Eventually she could stand it no longer and in May she handed in her notice. Miss Wooler accepted her resignation with reluctance but wished her well for the future.

After a period of quiet and rest at home, Patrick encouraged her to invite Mary and Martha Taylor to stay at Haworth in June. The two sisters duly arrived, causing much domestic commotion. As Tabby’s room was considered too small to accommodate their guests the sisters gave up their own bedchamber, moving into the servant’s room instead, with Tabby offering to stay with her sister and coming in once a day to assist with meals. Emily declared she would take charge of breakfast.

“Porridge - in this weather!” giggled Martha, slipping into the kitchen on the first morning of her arrival, to behold Emily stirring a huge pot of porridge on the range.

“We normally have porridge for breakfast” returned Emily “Papa never tires of it” The Taylors were too polite to remark upon the fact that the sideboard at home would normally be groaning with dishes of eggs and ham, kippers, fresh rolls and preserves, and ate their porridge with good humour.

In the evenings, Mary entertained them on the piano, whilst Branwell diverted the company with his impersonations and witty sallies. They played charades and Emily surprised them all by capering about the room in a wide-brimmed felt hat – complete with ostrich plume – that she had fashioned herself.

“The Laughing Cavalier” guessed Mary, who had developed an instant rapport with Emily. The pair indulged in private jokes and asides, until Charlotte came up to them curiously.

“What do you find so hilarious?”

“Now don’t be jealous” chided Mary, in a playful tone “You have Emily all to yourself most of the time, whereas I am only permitted occasional contact”

“Mary is much more lively than Ellen, and more well-read” commented Branwell, after the two sisters had departed.

“Though she is often sarcastic” added Charlotte. She respected Mary’s spirited independence, which reminded her of Emily, but Ellen was more pliable and less disposed to challenge conventional wisdom.

* * * *

Determined to be self-supporting, Branwell decided to set up as a portrait painter in Bradford, where he rented a studio. He took lodgings at No. 2 Fountain Street, and resumed his contact with the Halifax sculptor Joseph Leyland, who was only a few years his senior. Before long Branwell had made the acquaintance of various other local struggling writers and artists, including George Searle Phillips, and the poet William Dearden. The friends convened at the George Hotel in Bradford over bowls of whiskey punch for regular carousing sessions. Branwell came home most weekends, either taking the coach from Keighley or walking across the moors to Haworth.

Charlotte had by now had time to reconsider her decision to quit Miss Wooler’s school, which had perhaps been over-hasty. Emily was a competent housekeeper, and she was not really needed at home. Although her father had never reproached her he was now sixty-one, and she knew she would not be able to remain at home forever, when she was quite capable of earning her own living. She decided to write to Miss Wooler, who was still in need of a replacement teacher, and after an extended summer leave, agreed to return to Dewsbury Moor in August 1838.

“I hope she will be safe” said Anne, referring to the Dewsbury riots, which were in all the papers. A Peoples’ Charter had been drawn up and an Anti-Corn Law League set up to fight for free trade. The very month Charlotte returned to school commissioners of the hated Poor Law were attacked by a rampaging mob. The troops were called out and quartered in town to keep order. Charlotte, however, did not mention the recent disturbances in her letters home and seemed quite oblivious of what was happening outside the school. Patrick shook his head in impotent dismay as he read the news.

“What did they expect? They refuse to repeal this iniquitous Act and this is the result” Since being troubled with dyspepsia he had been obliged to consult a doctor who recommended a daily glass of wine with his main meal, which advice he followed. Patrick was therefore doubly dismayed to read a sniping article in the local papers from his old adversary – the dissenter Winterbotham – that “the founder of Haworth Temperance Society has taken to the bottle!”

“Take no notice, Papa” counselled his daughters.

Now that her older brother and sister were employed, Emily also decided to make a stab at earning a living and left Haworth in September to become a teacher in Miss Patchett’s boarding school, at Law Hill near Halifax. The school was twice the size of Miss Wooler’s with only two staff in residence, so Emily’s hours were much longer than Charlotte’s and her duties more onerous. As the Christmas holidays approached and Charlotte arrived home, her father was surprised to hear that she had once again given in her notice and that she would not be returning to Dewsbury.

“So, Charlotte, is this to be your definitive and final notice?” enquired Branwell, who had also arrived home from Bradford at the weekend. “You are back and forth like a pendulum. Poor Miss Wooler must be feeling quite dizzy” Charlotte gave her brother a pained smile.

“It is not the teaching duties I find so onerous. My leisure time is eaten into by having to escort the pupils on their daily walks, in addition to supervising their studies. As if this were not enough, Miss Wooler’s aged relatives are now come to live with her, and she looks to me to assist with various domestic chores!” Charlotte’s indignation only served to provoke her brother’s amused mockery.

“Combing their hoary locks, you mean, and spoon-feeding them gruel?” Anne put a hand over her mouth, suppressing a laugh.

“Branwell, do not be facetious” Patrick admonished his son. “How do you think Emily stands up to it?” he enquired gravely of Charlotte, as she digested the contents of a letter from her sister, in which much had been passed over and omitted. Typically, Emily had remarked that she cared far more for the dog than her pupils. Charlotte looked up.

“She labours from 6am to 11pm with only half an hour for exercise. How she must be suffering, the lack of liberty and solitude. I fear for her health, it is so utterly foreign to her temperament…” Patrick looked troubled.

“I wish, my dear, that it was within my means to provide for you all handsomely to spare you such drudgery. You know that if Emily’s health suffers I would much rather she stay at home”

“Papa, there is no implied reproach” replied Charlotte “We all tried to dissuade Emily from this course. And yet she is so determined, so brave”

“Yes” said Patrick thoughtfully “Emily is unlike most people. She lacks the social graces, and is unable to withstand the company of strangers for very long”

* * * *

“Miss Bronte, Miss Bronte…..” Two of Emily’s pupils strove to attract her attention. “Abigail is pulling Maria’s hair, and she will not stop” Preoccupied, Emily scarcely heard any remarks addressed to her as she deliberated over the phrasing and rhythm of her latest composition: it expanded upon the theme Charlotte had begun in her poem Retrospection, honouring the imagination. Each word was like a highly polished stone, a glittering jewel in its own perfect setting. To each its allotted place, she murmured, and paused to read over what she had written:

When weary with the long day’s care,

And earthly change from pain to pain,

And lost, and ready to despair,

Thy kind voice calls me back again:

Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,

While then canst speak with such a tone!

So hopeless is the world without;

The world within I doubly prize;

Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,

And cold suspicion never rise;

Where thou, and I, and Liberty,

Have undisputed sovereignty.

What matters it, that all around

Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie,

If but within our bosom’s bound

We hold a bright, untroubled sky,

“But Maria is crying! And if you don’t stop her then I will fetch Miss Patchett…” Emily rose from her writing desk, and marched across the landing to the girls’ dormitory. She seized hold of Abigail by the shoulders and shook her violently.

“See how you like it, Miss Lackwit” She turned to Maria “Stop snivelling. You are, what, fifteen years of age? If someone pulls your hair, pull theirs in return. Now shut up and go to bed, all of you, and leave me in peace!” She retired to her room and bent over her desk.

Emily was afforded a brief respite when she came home at Christmas, then in January it was back to her dreary exile from all she held dear. By the spring, she had become so homesick that her health had broken down and was now a matter of concern to the Headmistress, who had summoned her to her study.

“Miss Bronte, you do not eat sufficient to keep body and soul together. Is there anything troubling you?” Miss Patchett’s direct line of questioning – usually so productive with recalcitrant pupils or staff – did not seem to be having the desired effect. Emily gazed back at her listlessly.

“I am quite well” she replied finally.

“I think you are not at all well. In fact, I have taken the liberty of writing to your father…” Emily’s eyes momentarily flashed fire, and then dimmed again as she gazed through the window behind her employer’s desk.

“I am sorry to have disappointed you, Miss Patchett. If you consider me less than competent..”

“-On the contrary. It is not your competence that is at issue: you are clearly well-educated and possess all the requisite teaching qualifications. However…” Here Miss Patchett hesitated. It was not often that she was disconcerted by someone so much younger than herself, but this tall, self-possessed and socially inept young woman unsettled her. At the beginning she had made allowances for Miss Bronte, who had little or no experience of society – to be expected of a Minister’s daughter who led a circumscribed existence – but she had hoped that, over time, Miss Bronte would come to feel the same affection for and loyalty to the school as the other mistresses in her employ. As the months went by, she had come to see how mistaken she had been in her original prognosis. Miss Bronte remained resolutely and doggedly apart from the rest of their small community - somehow unreachable. There was no getting through to her, and although several of the girls respected her a few professed themselves frightened by her. It would not do – it would not do at all.

“I am prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, and would have no hesitation in providing you with a satisfactory character reference, should you find a more congenial position” she went on “but I must be frank with you, Miss Bronte. The instruction of young minds is a noble calling which requires its practitioners to be more than just capable in the discharge of their duties, but to also demonstrate a proper degree of enthusiasm for their vocation. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Whether it is a noble calling is open to question. Certainly it is an arduous one, which requires its practitioners to labour from dawn to dusk, for very little recompense. But I allow that you may have found me deficient in showing the proper degree of enthusiasm” Miss Patchett looked exasperated. Emily’s response to her solicitous enquiries had verged on insolence. She considered herself to be astute in matters of business, and the only way she had been able to balance the books was by employing the minimum number of staff – who were therefore obliged to work very long hours – and by keeping wages low. Not being drawn from the ranks of the high-born, they were hardly in a position to complain. Miss Patchett was provoked enough to observe, in a frostier tone “I do not think you are suitable for this post” Emily showed no emotion whatsoever.

“Perhaps you are right”

“I have therefore taken steps to release you from your contract of employment, and made all the necessary travel arrangements so that you may return home” continued Miss Patchett briskly, wishing to conclude the interview, which was making her increasingly uncomfortable.

* * * *

Although Branwell had a number of commissions – chiefly within the clerical circle – these were only enough to pay for his keep. It was doubtful whether he would ever be able to earn a living as a portrait painter, especially as he was up against stiff competition from other established artists in the region. He had also managed to contract debts, which he managed to keep secret from his family. Leyland, now his closest friend, came to the rescue and settled his account with his landlady, who was clamouring the loudest.

“It’s nothing” he assured Branwell, waving his protests aside. “I have been in debt myself and know what it is like. Besides, I have received a new commission, which will pay handsomely” He had just put the finishing touches to a pair of gigantic greyhounds.

“They are of gargantuan proportions” commented Branwell, circling the sculptures in his friend’s studio.

“My client wishes them to grace the entrance to his dwelling” replied Leyland with a grimace “People are uncommonly fond of their dogs, you know”

“Your head of Satan should be exhibited in London” went on Branwell earnestly “It is quite wonderful - I have seen nothing like it. Were you inspired by Milton?”

“To an extent, yes. But I am also haunted by my own private demons” Branwell managed to keep going for several more months until he was once more heavily in debt. Reluctant to call upon his friends for assistance, he returned home to Haworth, somewhat discouraged, to plead his case with his father.

“In the capital, I would secure more commissions. I might be able to make the acquaintance of influential persons who would recommend me. I would only need a small regular allowance...”

“Branwell, if I did not love you as I do, I would send you to your ruin with an easy conscience where you would be easy prey for every lurking card-sharp and pick-pocket. You would soon be drawn to the stewpots and gaming rooms, where many a young man before you has succumbed to temptation. You have shown to both your aunt and myself that you cannot withstand such lures. A life of improvidence soon leads to penury, but there are far more dangerous consequences of a spiritual nature which you are too young and experienced to be cognisant of”

“I am not one of your parishioners to be endlessly preached at, Papa! Why must you always think the worst of me? Yes, I have frequented ale-houses in the company of other young fellows – but is that so very reprehensible? When you were young like me, you went up to Cambridge, you travelled and saw something of the world, and yet you would deny me the same opportunities. You have had your life! What would you have me do, Father? I am mewed up and confined within the walls of this mouldering parsonage like some mediaeval monk or anchorite. What is there for me here but stagnation?”

“I went up to Cambridge on a scholarship” Patrick reminded him “It was only through the patronage and kind offices of Reverend Tighe, whose sons I had tutored, that I was enabled to go to university. It is not within my means to support you at Oxford or Cambridge: I wish it were otherwise, Branwell, but my modest stipend …”

“-I understand, Father! You have drummed it into my head often enough. I understand that I am but an impoverished parson’s son and that I must earn my own crust and make my own way in the world, but all I ask is that I am allowed to pursue my drawing in the capital where such talent as I possess can be best nurtured. Even if my gifts prove to be mediocre I could earn my living there as a portrait painter. And with congenial society – men of letters, of learning – I would engage in philosophic disputes in coffee houses, not be drawn to those dens of iniquity and houses of ill repute which you so dread. But here I have no companions, save those I find at the King’s Arms or Black Bull. I have been tutored at home, and have not had the opportunity of making those life-long friends and connections you would wish for me. I have no learned profession, I am not trained at the bar or in medicine, I have no religion vocation – no, please, let us hear no more on that subject - you know that I do not! I can write, and I write well, but none will publish me. I repeat, what am I do with myself?”

Patrick regarded his only son with a pained expression as Branwell confronted him with blazing eyes. Branwell’s mounting exasperation tore at Patrick, who felt the reproaches keenly. Each accusation that was levelled found its mark, each shaft of reproof pierced his conscience, because there was truth as well as eloquence in his impassioned plea for freedom. Part of him, the father who would not deny his child, longed to grant him what he wished, but the other part - the minister appointed to work God’s purpose - remained stern and immoveable. If it came down to a stark choice of which must be sacrificed: a short-lived and transitory freedom or the everlasting and imperishable soul, then to his mind there was no contest.

“I must hold fast to what I believe to be the right course of conduct. Your aunt and I have talked this over, and we are both in full agreement. No, I must follow the dictates of conscience on this matter. I am sorry for it, Branwell, heartily sorry, but you have my decision” As he emerged from his father’s study with a long face Emily asked him why he was looking so hangdog.

“The Old Cossack has just been taking me to task over my having run up some debts in Bradford. Word got back to him, and it seems I am in disgrace. Am I to have no social life whatsoever? I am not to be trusted in London, as it is feared that I will lead a life of dissipation, and he is at pains to point out that he is now heartily glad he did not agree to finance a tour of the Continent, as it would have been a waste of his money”

“Ne t’inquietes pas, mon ami” said Emily, clapping him on the shoulder “Guess what? Charlotte has received a proposal of marriage!” A week ago, the Reverend Henry Nussey, formerly curate of Dewsbury and now curate of Donnington, had proposed marriage in a letter.

“From whom? Is he blind?”

“Be quiet” Emily whispered, with a laugh “Here she comes”

“Dear God” Mary Taylor had commented when she heard of the proposal “Ellen’s brother is the least romantic of persons, and is merely prompted by pragmatic considerations. I hope you will have the sense to refuse him” Aged 23, Charlotte was perfectly aware that Henry’s affections were not truly engaged, but she did not wish to give offence, and chose her words carefully in her response: “You are aware that I have many reasons to feel grateful to your family, that I have peculiar reasons for affection towards one at least of your sisters, and also that I highly esteem yourself – do not therefore accuse me of wrong motives when I say that my answer to your proposal must be a decided negative…I have no personal repugnance to the idea of a union with you, but I feel convinced that mine is not the sort of disposition calculated to form the happiness of a man like you… However, I scorn deceit, and I will never, for the sake of attaining the distinction of matrimony and escaping the stigma of an old maid, take a worthy man whom I am conscious I cannot render happy”

“So, is Ellen to be our sister-in-law?” enquired Branwell, as Charlotte swept past them, on her way to the parlour.

“Good morning, Branwell. You will learn of my decision in due course” Emily and her brother exchanged knowing smiles.

Their father’s straitened circumstances had obliged them to discuss the possibility of obtaining situation as governesses. The idea seemed to fill Emily with dread in the same measure as it filled her younger sister Anne with a quiet determination and resolve. The latter began making enquiries and before long had managed to find herself a situation as governess with the Ingham family, and in April 1839 she departed for Blake Hall, Mirfield. Finding that her position at home was untenable, and spurred on by her younger sister’s example, Charlotte obtained a similar post within a month. By May she was employed as governess by the Sidgwicks, wealthy Yorkshire manufacturers residing at Stonegappe, near Skipton.

At home Emily was doing the lion’s share of the housework, having taken upon herself all the heavy drudgery, as well as the cooking and ironing, since Tabby’s leg had never healed properly and she was consequently lame. Once she had finished most of her daily chores she would take the dogs out for a ramble across the moors, or tend the garden.

“Are you sure this work is not too heavy for you, my dear?” asked Patrick one day, as he came across Emily energetically scouring the kitchen flagstones.

“It is a fair exchange, Papa, and the least I can do whilst Charlotte and Anne are gainfully employed. I honestly do not mind” she added, seeing his worried expression. “I am perfectly fit and quite equal to the task”

“Well, it is a fine day. I have to go out but why don’t you and your brother walk across to Keighley. The fresh air would do you good. I am in any case anxious to procure a copy of Carlyle’s recently published Chartism, and you can both choose some books from the library” Emily readily acquiesced to this suggestion, and as soon as she had finished with her chores, she and Branwell set off. The walk was four miles each way, but a familiar one they enjoyed: they would often spend an hour or more perusing the shelves, before stopping at the pie shop in the village. As they were only allowed two books each, Emily chose Spenser’s Faery Queen and some of Shelley’s poetry. Branwell had chosen Leigh Hunt’s Essays and asked for Carlyle’s Chartism, only to be told by the librarian that it was on loan and had not yet been returned.

“I do not know why the book is so popular” remarked the young man behind the desk. “Is the Reverend Bronte intending to make the Chartists riots a study for his sermons?”

“In all probability” responded Branwell, who was preoccupied with scanning the bookshelves “He likes to be well-informed. I will take this Report on the Sanitary Conditions of the Working Class for Papa instead since that is his pet obsession, and perhaps some of Macauley’s essays on education… would you happen to have anything of De Quincey’s…..Ah ha! Just what I was looking for: Confessions of an English Opium Eater” Branwell grabbed the slim volume from the shelves, whilst the librarian raised an eyebrow at his choice of reading matter.

“Let us go” said Emily in a low voice “Quickly, before they see us” Two sisters from the village whom she recognised had just walked in, and were chattering to each other.

“Let us test my prophetic powers” murmured Branwell sotto voce “They are sure to choose some gothic horror by Mrs. Radcliffe”

“Eliza” called Helen to her sister “We are in luck. The Mysteries of Udolpho has just been returned. I think it the very best book Anne Radcliffe has ever written…” Emily and Branwell managed to slip out without being accosted, and stopped off at the pastry shop to purchase two mutton pies for sustenance on their return journey.

“Do you not get tired of being at home all the time?” Branwell asked his sister curiously, as they sat on a rocky outcrop to eat their lunch.

“For the most part I am content” replied Emily “I should perhaps like to see the inside of a tavern - not as a woman sees it - but through the eyes of a man”

“That would only happen if you disguised yourself as a man” No sooner had he said this than an idea suggested itself to Branwell. He had observed on more than one occasion that Emily lost all her natural diffidence when she was wearing a mask or acting a part. Glancing at her now, he thought she could easily pass herself off as a youth or young man: she was taller than her sisters and of a lean build.

“You could disguise yourself in my clothing and accompany me to the Black Bull one evening” suggested Branwell wickedly “No-one would recognise you for you never go into the village ” Emily laughed at him.

“Are you insane?”

“Quite. Well, why not tonight? I dare you to” Emily stared at her brother and saw that he was serious. By the time they had reached home the idea had taken root, and they had hatched a plan between them. Branwell would leave the house at about 8:30pm, as was his custom when he met up with friends. Emily would retire to her room soon afterwards with a feigned headache, and don her brother’s attire. Her father would be in the study until 9pm when he retired for the night. Emily would then sneak downstairs and out the back kitchen door. This was the nerve-racking part: she would have to get to the bottom of Church Lane without being recognised and enter the inn by herself.

“Can we not leave together?” asked Emily “What if it is so crowded I cannot see you?”

“No, some one might see us leaving the parsonage together” said Branwell “Don’t worry: I will get Little Nosey to reserve my usual table on the staircase” Branwell’s favourite perch was on a bend halfway up the stairs where a small table had been placed. From his vantage point he could look down on the jostling crowd beneath him, whilst the other patrons looked up in wonder at his ringing pronouncements. This exclusive spot was generally reserved for him by the indulgent landlord, who encouraged Branwell’s custom when trade was slack, or when there were important visitors to be entertained.

“We must determine on some masculine cognomen” continued Branwell. They decided that Emily would be Georges Montmorency - a character from Angria. “You will be the son of a French émigré whom I met whilst in Bradford. That way you will not have to speak much if I am accosted by friends”

On edge, Emily paced the dining room after Branwell had left the house. Her aunt was upstairs, as usual: she preferred the comforts of her own room with its welcoming fire to the draughtier regions downstairs. Emily looked in on her father, who was in his study. “I think I shall retire early, Papa. The walk to Keighley must have tired me out”

“Of course, my dear - you have extinguished the fire?” Her father had a phobia about fires - having witnessed at first-hand the tragic results of candles left burning in his parishioners’ cottages - and insisted on keeping buckets of water in the kitchen. Shortly after Tabby had retired for the night she heard her father mount the stairs, then pause halfway up to wind up the grandfather clock before continuing on to his bedchamber. In her room Emily put on the clothes Branwell had loaned her. As she was slightly taller than her brother the trousers were somewhat short but not noticeably so; she fumbled with the cravat for a minute before tucking it into the brocade waistcoat. Finally, she tied her hair back into a French queue with a ribbon, before completing her attire with the antiquated Cavalier hat she had made for their games of charades. It was unlikely any of the locals would comment on her eccentric headgear since the French nobility were noted for their extravagant apparel. Emily contemplated her unfamiliar reflection in the cheval glass.

“Bonsoir, mon ami” She waited for a further five minutes, before poking her head out her door. All was quiet. She crept across the landing and tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the oak treads which creaked. As she passed into the kitchen the dog gave a low bark and bounded up to her. Emily knelt down to fondle him, rubbing him behind his ears. “Quiet, now” she whispered. Keeper followed her to the door, wagging his tail, convinced they were both going on a moonlight stroll. “Sit” She pointed to the hearth, where he habitually slept. Gazing earnestly into her face, Keeper reluctantly turned around and obediently returned to his station. “Good boy”. Emily slipped out the back door and headed towards the Black Bull at the bottom of Church Lane. She tugged the brim of her hat low as she passed the sexton’s cottage, where there was still a glimmer of lamplight showing through a chink in the shutters. As she approached the inn she could hear the sounds of voices and laughter from within.

Emily paused on the threshold and took a deep breath, then flung open the door, half-expecting the room to fall silent at her entry. A few men glanced curiously in her direction, but most of the regulars were too busy drinking and chatting to their companions to pay her much heed. She looked up and saw Branwell immediately, who hailed her in a loud voice.

“Ah, Montmorency. I feared you would be late for our appointment” Emily elbowed her way through the throng of revellers and mounted the staircase.

“Anyone can see ‘tis the parson’s son for he’s found his own pulpit to preach from” commented someone she passed on the stairs. “Ye’ll no’ object if I join ye, young Patrick?” The speaker had begun to draw out a chair from Branwell’s table, situated midpoint on the staircase. ”I see you are on the Dog’s Nose tonight”

“Begone, man” returned Branwell “Can you not see I have company? There is only room for two at this table. Be seated, sir” he said to Emily, who squeezed herself into the chair opposite her brother.

“Ye’ll be from furrin’ parts then?” persisted the man, throwing her a suspicious look. Emily ignored him. “Please yersel’” he muttered resentfully, continuing on his way down the stairs. “Some stuck-up Frenchy, wi’ no more manners than a clodhopper for all his dandified ways” Emily now recognised the speaker as Will Fletcher, an unemployed weaver.

“What is Dog’s Nose?” she asked her brother, as he urged a glass on her.

“A mixture of rum and ale. It will help to calm your nerves”

“I am quite calm” replied Emily, taking a deep draught before Branwell could warn her of its potency. Will and his companion sniggered as she coughed.

“Yon milksop is used to fancy French claret, like as not”

“Va t’en au Diable, espece de merde” responded Emily, emboldened by the drink “Ne pas me parler plus” Branwell chortled.

“You have made yourself exceedingly unpopular in a short space of time” Emily shrugged with a show of Gallic insouciance.

“Je m’en fous. C’est tout de même à moi”

“Eh? What did he just say to us?” countered Will’s companion, straining to hear.

“’Twere an insult at any rate” muttered the other “Diable means divil, and I think he just told ‘un to go to the divil”

“Oh aye? I’ll pitch yon Frenchie to the divil alright, if he keeps on”

“ Come, Montmorency, drink up” said Branwell “I must apologise for their manners. If they were acquainted with your sad history they might address you with more respect” At this their two listeners looked up, anticipating further revelations. Emily leaned back in her chair and sighed theatrically.

“I find myself an orphan cast adrift on these shores: my grandparents were guillotined by the rabble during the Great Terror, and my mother placed in the care of a distant relation. At 17 she was seduced by a grenadier and died giving birth to me” Branwell choked over his ale. Emily did not disappoint.

“Aye, and if they refuse the Chartists’s demands there’ll be revolution in this country!” declared Will, raising his tankard “I would sorely like to see some heads roll: we should set up a Razor in every town square” Branwell immediately turned on the disaffected weaver, and reviled him for a revolutionist and a regicide.

“And that is your solution to all the worlds’ ills, you dolt? Overflowing tumbrils and guillotines running hot with the blood of aristocrats? I find you odious, Sir, an abomination not to be tolerated by civilised society”. His listeners were momentarily taken aback, never quite sure whether Branwell jested or was in earnest.

“I challenge you to a duel!” shouted Emily, who had downed three glasses in quick succession and lost her inhibitions. “Je meurs, Je ne me rends pas!”

“ I’ll fetch thee a clout ‘round the lughole...” began the weaver, rising to his feet.

“-And I’ll knock your teeth into the back of your head if you don’t cease this instant” threatened the landlord, panicking lest a constable should be called out to restore the peace. He managed to pacify Will Fletcher, whose threats had been empty. He would not have dared to lay a finger on the Minister’s son or any of his guests. Branwell leaned across the table, addressing Emily.

“You know nothing of the chivalric code, sir” and then, enunciating in a lower tone for Emily’s benefit “An aristocrat does not engage in duels with his social inferiors. You have just thrown down the gauntlet to a member of the operative classes” He was shaking with laughter. “And slow the pace of your drinking – you are not used to it”

“You dare to question my chivalric code, sir?” returned Emily, seizing her brother by the throat “You dare to impugn my honour?” Their listeners appeared confused at this sudden mood swing, and craned forward to see what would happen next.

“Is the young gennl’men fighting now? Why, a moment since they were the best of friends. Must be the Dog’s Nose has put them both out of countenance with each other. Will they fight a duel over it, think ye?”

“Calm yourself, Montmorency” said Branwell, spluttering into his ale. “Had we been born when Napoleon’s armies rampaged across Europe, our families would have united in opposing the tyrant. My own family is distantly related to Admiral Horatio Nelson”.

“Favour me with your reasons for such a monstrous assertion” replied Emily, who had recovered her equanimity.

“The Admiral was Duke of Bronte - were you acquainted with this fact, sir?” Will’s companion, a much older man, peered up at them to get a closer look at Branwell.

“Nelson himself, what won the battle of Trafalgar?” His eyes widened in wonder. “I’ve seen a portrait of the gennl’man, and you’ll pardon me for saying so, laddie, but you doan resemble him in the least particl’ar” In point of fact, Patrick was the son of an Irish farmer called Brunty. Though impoverished, the family had been blessed with strong constitutions and singular good looks, which Patrick had inherited. The latter was not ashamed of his humble antecedents, but had never returned to his native Ireland after graduating from Cambridge.

“Who was your father, Montmorency?” continued Branwell.

“I haven’t the froggiest, old chap” replied Emily coolly, at which witticism their listeners fell about with laughter. The old man slapped his knees, rocking with mirth.

“The froggiest, the froggiest. I’ll wager he’d have thrown in his lot with the English against Old Boney”

“A remarkable volte-face if ever I saw one” said Branwell, out of earshot “Keep it up. They are warming to you” Two clergymen – Methodist dissenters - had wandered into the inn and occupied the table just vacated by Will and his companion. One of them made a disparaging remark about Anglican ministers. Patrick was not mentioned by name but Branwell was sensitive to the implied insult to his father.

“Have you heard of the Methodist Revival?” he enquired of Emily in tones loud enough to be overheard.

“I have not, but I assume they are fishing for souls”

“Then I would highly recommend a perusal of one of their pamphlets. They have formed a Society for the Diffusion of Useless Knowledge, and the contents would repay careful study: Humbug and cant for the masses” A stream of invective greeted this remark, whereby the established church was roundly abused for the offence of extorting tithes from independent worshippers. One of the clergymen was eyeing up Branwell with sour distaste.

“He who sups with the Devil must have a long spoon”

“Oh, cease your infernal nonsense!” retorted Branwell, emptying the contents of his glass onto the table beneath them “Do not presume to empty the vials of canonical wrath upon this head, sir, I beg you. It is most unjust”

“Time to go” Emily said, rising from the table, before her brother could provoke them further “We must be off, mon garcon” Outside, they staggered homewards, laughing hysterically. “Do you always bait them like this?”

“Most of the time” confessed Branwell “It is my chief amusement. When I am with my friends in Bradford we discuss art, science and philosophy, but here in Haworth it is different: there are few with whom I can converse on equal terms, so I cannot resist baiting them: I mean no harm by it”

“No, but you will come to harm one of these days, if you do not curb your tongue” As they passed the church, her brother began to recount a macabre but true story about a drunk who – after a night’s carousing – had decided to take a shortcut through the graveyard, and had fallen into an open grave which the sexton had left unfinished. Unable to clamber out unaided he had screamed himself hoarse, but the howling of the wind had muffled his increasingly desperate cries. Eventually he had fallen into a slumber from which he did not awake, and his frozen corpse was found the following morning.

“Speaking of the Devil there’s Old Nick himself” said Branwell, catching sight of John Brown, who was seated on a headstone and smoking his pipe in the moonlight.

“Well, George, it looks as though you’ve missed your ride back to Oxenhope” said Branwell in a loud voice for the sexton’s benefit “The farmer could have waited a while longer. No matter – you can lodge at the rectory for the night”

“‘Tis a fine evening, Patrick” observed the stonemason, leaning over and peering to get a closer look at Emily, who pulled the brim of her hat down over her eyes.

Once safely inside the parsonage, Emily stole upstairs soundlessly and sought her couch. Restless and unable to sleep, she leaned out across the windowsill. It was a balmy night and the stars were very bright. She smiled to herself as she recalled the night’s adventures. Visiting the tavern in disguise had opened her eyes to an unfamiliar and exclusive world: it was not her world, but it had given her a deeper understanding of the milieu her brother inhabited. She drew the air deep into her lungs, exhaling softly. The darkness was velvety and the tombstones bleached white in the moonlight, like the bones of those buried beneath them. She struggled for words to finish the poetry fragment she had been working on about a Gondal prisoner:

He comes with western winds, with evening’s wandering airs,

With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars.

Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,

And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.

Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,

When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears.

When, if my spirit’s sky was full of flashes warm,

I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.

But, first, a hush of peace – a soundless calm descends;

The struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends;

Mute music soothes my breast – unuttered harmony,

That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.

Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;

My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels:

Its wings are almost free – its home, its harbour found,

Measuring the gulph, it stoops and dares the final bound,

Oh dreadful is the check – intense the agony –

When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;

When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again;

The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.

Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less;

The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;

And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,

If it but herald death, the vision is divine!

Chapter Five – 1839 -1841

Since Branwell’s return from Bradford, Patrick had become concerned for his son’s future. His extraordinary talents had come to naught. As the cherished only boy in a family of sisters they gave way to him in most things, whilst denying themselves. As a consequence, Branwell had become increasingly self-indulgent and unrestrained in his conduct. His sisters’ fond indulgence and easy tolerance of his wayward behaviour did not do him any favours in the long run. Spoiled by his doting aunt, Branwell habitually conducted himself as though he bore a charmed life: his ready wit and power to attract listeners by the brilliance of his conversation blinded people to his character defects. After giving the matter considerable thought Patrick decided to embark on an intensive course of instruction for his son, with the object of preparing him for a position as tutor in a private household. He drew up an ambitious reading scheme for a systematic study of the classics, with set translations. Surprisingly, Branwell did not raise any objections.

“Perhaps I am not meant to be a portrait painter, Papa” sighed Branwell. “There are so many artists more gifted than I, that I cannot hope to compete with them”

“A talent for drawing will nevertheless come in useful as tutor. Poetry is all very well but there is no future in it. I published some verse myself when I was a young man, and even wrote a tale or two..” Branwell groaned theatrically, rolling his eyes.

“I am to be punished for my transgressions by being made to study The Maid of Killarney and your Cottage Poems. Heaven grant me respite from this cruel fate...”

“You will be translating Horace, the Greek gospels, and the first 6 books of Homer’s Iliad” continued Patrick, suppressing a smile. “A good situation as private tutor will leave you with ample free time on your hands, and you may yet write in your leisure hours” Branwell saw the sense of his father’s arguments, and readily agreed to his proposed plan of study. He was aware that male tutors had an easier time of it than governesses, who were often obliged to be nursemaids and seamstresses in addition to their other duties, and he could scarcely complain when his sisters endured much worse.

From the start Charlotte did not get on with the wife of her employer and her letters to Emily were full of complaints: “…Mrs. S cares nothing in the world about me except to contrive how the greatest possible quantity of labour may be squeezed out of me, and to that end she overwhelms me with oceans of needlework, yards of cambric to hem, muslin nightcaps to make, and, above all things, dolls to dress…” No one at Haworth was vastly surprised when Charlotte did not return after the July holidays, her situation having only lasted two months. In August, much to everyone’s surprise, she received a second marriage proposal: “I have an odd circumstance to relate to you – prepare for a hearty laugh!” she wrote to her friend “The other day Mr. Hodgson, papa’s former curate, now a vicar, came over to spend the day with us, bringing with him his own curate. The latter gentleman, by name Mr. Price, is a young Irish clergyman, fresh from Dublin University. A few days later I received a letter. Having opened and read it, it proved to be a declaration of attachment and proposal of matrimony, expressed in the ardent language of the sapient young Irishman! Well! thought I, I have heard of love at first sight, but this beats all”

Ann was encountering the same difficulties as Charlotte had experienced with the Sidgwicks. She found her young charges, a six-year-old boy and five-year-old girl, completely unmanageable and spoilt. They pulled her hair, put frogs in her writing desk, and spat into the tapestry work-box Ellen had bought her. On another occasion they refused to put on their hats when it was snowing, and Mrs. Ingham came across them walking hatless in the grounds.

“Miss Bronte, why have you allowed the children out in the snow with no hats?” Anne tried to explain that it was impossible to get them to do her bidding. “If that is the case, then you must be at fault” was her employer’s cold response. She refused to reprimand her children for their unruly conduct, insisting that their young governess was to blame. In December Anne was dismissed, and she left her situation at Blake Hall to return home.

“What I find so insupportable ” said Charlotte “is that in addition to possessing the highest educational attainments a governess is also required to be genteel - only a lady may instruct their children - and yet I was always treated as little better than an upper servant” She had been deeply unsettled by the discrepancy between how she perceived herself – as the educated daughter of a minister with refined tastes – and how her employer perceived her: not as someone on an equal footing but as a menial to be ordered about.

“I know exactly what you mean” sighed Anne, who had first-hand experience of the degradations and privations endured by governesses. They were sitting at the kitchen table – a pot of tea before them – as they compared experiences. Listening to her sisters talk made Emily all the more determined to avoid a similar fate.

“To be a dependent in a strange household, to be subject to all those humiliations an employer can inflict, I don’t know that I could bear it” she ventured. “I would rather be a lowly scullery maid scrubbing the floors, and not have to speak to anyone”

“Leave off the ironing until later, Emily” said Charlotte “Come sit down with us and have some tea” Emily quietly ignored this and continued with the ironing.

“Where is Tabby?” asked Anne suddenly.

“She has gone to live with her sister because her leg became ulcerated” said Branwell, who had been listening with half an ear to their conversation. “She is so conscious of being a burden, and nothing we could say would dissuade her. Papa has engaged John Brown’s daughter Martha to help out” Since the sexton’s cottage was only a stone’s throw from the parsonage in Church Lane, it was a convenient arrangement which suited both parties. Although Martha was quite young at eleven, she did not find her duties irksome, which mostly consisted of lighting the fires, washing up, and running errands down to the village. Since Tabby’s departure, Charlotte and Emily had shared the housework between them - making up the beds and sweeping the floors - with Emily taking on the more arduous drudgery such blackleading the stove and scouring the coppers, so as to spare her more delicate sister.

“She’s just gone to the bakers for some more flour” added Emily. “She wanted to help with baking an apple pie to welcome you home”

“It’s an embarrassment to be dismissed from my first post but it’s so good to be home again” said Anne. “I will go and visit Tabby tomorrow”

“I am generally loathed by the lady of the house, who perceives me as a ‘cuckoo in the nest’- a threat to her domestic harmony” continued Charlotte, with a touch of bitterness “I seem to get on better with the master than the mistress”

“Perhaps that is why the mistress perceives you as a threat” remarked Branwell, idly tossing scraps of bacon to Keeper who wolfed them down. Their father interrupted their conversation by entering the room, waving a newspaper in his hand.

“Branwell, I have here an advertisement in the Leeds Intelligencer from a Mr. Postlethwaite – a retired magistrate and landowner in Broughton-in-Furness - who is sorely in need of a tutor for his two sons. He specifically emphasises a classical education. Come, let us retire to my study to discuss this proposition at greater length” Branwell rose from the table to follow his father, whilst making hideous grimaces at his sisters, which occasioned more laughter. As he read over the advertisement, Branwell’s interest increased. The location – in the heart of the Lake District – seemed ideal.

“Coleridge’s son Hartley lives nearby at Rydal Water” exclaimed Branwell excitedly “And De Quincey resides at Wordsworth’s old home in Grasmere. This position would suit me very well, Papa. I will apply for it straight away”

Patrick’s rigorous course of study now paid off handsomely as Branwell was successful in obtaining the appointment. He set off in high spirits on December 31st in a coach from Keighley, stopping en route at Kirkby Lonsdale, where he toasted the New Year at the Royal Hotel. The following day Branwell arrived at Broughton-in-Furness, some ten miles from Ulverston, and took lodgings at a farmhouse called High Syke House. “I can see the Brow of High Duddon from my window and there is a magnificent vista across to Black Combe, which inspired some of Wordsworth’s sonnets” he wrote to his father. “I am obliged to teach for four hours each day and the rest of the time is my own. Despite the cold weather, I am able to walk from High Duddon across the fells to Rydal Water, and amuse myself with sketching the landscape and working on my translations of Horace”

Patrick read Branwell’s letter with a mixture of wry amusement and relief. Since returning from a short excursion to Liverpool in the company of two friends, Branwell had been listless and out of sorts. But the cheerful tone of the letter indicated that his son’s natural optimism and buoyancy of spirits were restored, and Patrick had reason to believe that he had at last found a congenial occupation free from those distractions which were so injurious to his character: with Branwell settled, he could once again devote himself fully to pastoral matters. Whilst tutoring Branwell he had been obliged to seek assistance with his pastoral duties, and had engaged Mr. William Weightman as curate the previous August. Only twenty-six of age, good-natured and amiable, he proved to be so much more popular with the young Brontes than any of the other clerics - who were still mercilessly lampooned – having much in common with Branwell, with whom he had been on friendly terms. The girls considered him somewhat effeminate, and Charlotte dubbed him ‘Celia Amelia,’ writing to her friend: “Yesterday we all received valentines in the post! Celia Amelia walked the full ten miles to Bradford where he posted them hoping to remain undetected. Of course we feigned delighted ignorance, and our opening them was the cause of much merriment…” A frequent visitor at the parsonage, Weightman often brought his friends around, enlivening their little gatherings with his unclerical demeanour and repartee. Charlotte seemed to have fallen under his spell – despite her flippancy – and insisted on painting his portrait. On one occasion when the latter called unexpectedly, Charlotte beat a hasty retreat to an upstairs chamber where she prevailed upon Anne’s assistance in removing the curl-papers from her hair – much to Emily’s amusement. “But they have not yet had time to set” murmured Anne in dismay at the sight of Charlotte’s limp, drooping ringlets. Emily merely raised her eyebrows. She and Anne allowed their hair to fall in natural waves and did not bother with curling papers or crimping tongs, a habit their older sister had acquired whilst a pupil at Roe Head.

* * * *

At Ulverston, Branwell decided to send some of his writing to De Quincey - a former contributor to Blackwood’s Magazine - and who was residing nearby at Dove Cottage. He included a carefully reworked Angrian poem entitled At Dead of Midnight and his translation of Horace’s Odes. The latter did not reply, probably owing to illness brought on by his addiction to opium, and Branwell sent off the same specimens to Hartley Coleridge who lived on Rydal Water. He was wildly elated to receive an encouraging response, with an invitation to visit on May Day, of which he gave a spirited account in his next letter home:

“I spent the entire day with Hartley Coleridge, who was very hospitable: we discussed his father’s poetry, reciting The Ancient Mariner, together with a selection of his own sonnets. It was quite late when I quit Nab Cottage, declaiming aloud the Kubla Khan as I trudged homeward across the fells:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea….

I came across a shepherd who thought me quite mad. He waved his crook at me and declared I was ‘affrighting the sheep’.

P.S. Hartley thought my translations of Horace would be sure to find an appreciative audience and that my own verse showed distinctive promise. I hope we will become firm friends.”

In May 1840 Anne found another situation as governess with the Reverend Edmund Robinson and his wife Lydia at Thorp Green, near York. At forty-four, Robinson was a chronic invalid and no longer officiated at church services. The family lived in grand style in a substantial mansion, twice the size of Blake Hall, employing several servants. Every summer they took a holiday by the seaside at Scarborough and the new governess accompanied them. This was Anne’s first glimpse of the sea, and she was enraptured at the sight.

A month later in June, Branwell was unexpectedly dismissed from his post after only 6 months. Upon his return he was closeted with his father for some time in the latter’s study, whilst Charlotte and Emily speculated as to the reasons for his premature dismissal, which were unclear.

“It is possibly nothing” commented Emily. “After all, Anne was dismissed and she is as gentle as a lamb: I don’t see how anyone could find fault with her conduct” The general consensus was that Branwell had neglected his duties as tutor, being more preoccupied with pursuing a literary career. There were rumours in the village that he had fathered an illegitimate child - originating from his racy correspondence with John Brown – but these rumours never reached the ears of his sisters, and Branwell’s disappointment was short-lived. He now had a renewed purpose in life, largely due to the encouragement he had received from Hartley Coleridge. What Patrick thought of the whole affair was unknown, as he kept his innermost sentiments to himself, but he continued to impress upon his son that he would not be able to earn his living through writing verse.

Mary and Martha Taylor were invited to stay at the parsonage, and the party included William Weightman. Branwell was in his element, and even mildly flirted with Mary, whom he had always favoured over Ellen. Mary appeared to encourage him and Branwell kept everyone entertained by his impromptu impersonations of Charlotte and her erstwhile employer.

“Miss Wooler, I deeply regret to inform you that I shall be handing in my resignation forthwith: your treatment of me is insupportable and cannot be borne for an instant longer” He ducked down behind the piano, only to re-emerge wearing one of Aunt Elizabeth’s shawls. Assuming a different voice, he peered through a pince-nez:“But Miss Bronte, I entreat you: I have such a high regard for your teaching abilities. Will you not reconsider your position?” The shawl was whipped off and Charlotte’s character reappeared: “I give you warning, Miss Wooler. This is my final and definitive notice!” Mary and Emily were in hysterics. Weightman looked mystified, but joined in with the general merriment. Emily and Anne looked at their older sister to see whether she would take her revenge. A shadow of annoyance flitted across Charlotte’s face, but was swiftly replaced by a smile. She was quite capable of retaliating with her pen (the Angrian chronicles had recently featured a celebrated poet forced to endure the pompous versifying of a young poetaster who appeared on his doorstep with wearying regularity) but she lacked her brother’s talent for mimicry or burlesque. Anne had noticed a slight coolness between them ever since she had innocently mentioned to Branwell that, upon hearing of his visit with Coleridge, Charlotte had immediately written to the poet with some samples of her own work. Branwell had been annoyed: “Why must she copy everything I do? I suppose she has taken the liberty of writing to Wordsworth as well?” Anne’s silence was interpreted as assent.

Patrick and Branwell had a shared interest in railways, and in October 1840 they attended the official grand opening of the new Leeds & Manchester Railway. Shortly afterwards, Branwell secured an appointment as clerk-in-charge at the station of Sowerby Bridge. His duties included logging trains, superintending the loading and unloading of freight, and being responsible for the safety of passengers. As he was once again in the neighbourhood of Bradford he resumed his friendship with Leyland, who still had his studio in Halifax. The Leylands had a circulating library at their shop, which he was free to use, and he also attended concerts in Halifax, indulging his passion for sacred music such as Haydn’s Creation and Handel’s Messiah. In a letter home he wrote: “We have been honoured by a visit from the virtuoso pianist Franz Liszt, and I have made the acquaintance of a young clergyman who is a keen walker like myself….”

Ellen Nussey now had a suitor, a Mr. Vincent, and sought her friend’s advice on how she should respond. Charlotte counselled caution:

“…No young lady should fall in love till the offer has been made, accepted, the marriage ceremony performed, and the first half-year of wedded life has passed away. A woman may then begin to love, but with great precaution, very coolly, very moderately, very rationally. If she ever loves so much that a harsh word or a cold look cuts her to the heart she is a fool. If she ever loves so much that her husband’s will is her law, and that she has got into a habit of watching his looks in order that she may anticipate his wishes, she will soon be a neglected fool”

Whilst Anne was employed at Thorp Green, Emily and Charlotte read quantities of French novels in order to better acquaint themselves with the language and equip them for teaching. As Ellen’s courtship with Mr. Vincent progressed, Charlotte was inspired to write to her friend: “My good girl ‘une grande passion’ is ‘une grande folie’. I have told you so before and I tell it you again – mediocrity in all things is wisdom – mediocrity in the sensations is superlative wisdom...” Emily’s writings remained secret, her desk locked from prying eyes. Her only correspondence was with Anne, whose easy companionship she missed, though Branwell was frequently home for the weekends – either catching the coach at Keighley or walking all the way across the moors. She had told no-one of their shared exploits at the Black Bull, and Charlotte looked puzzled whenever Branwell jokingly addressed Emily as Montmorency. Unlike her older brother and sister she had no interest in sending off her poems to established writers in the hope of recognition. She and Charlotte walked across the moors together - Emily dragging her reluctant sister, who was less hardy and preferred to remain indoors in inclement weather. On one such walk, Charlotte outlined her plans to start a school of their own.

“If we could only get aunt to lend us some money, then we could repay the loan once the school has been established”

“Where would you have the school?” asked Emily doubtfully.

“We could take in a few pupils at the parsonage. With Anne and Branwell away, there would be more room…”

“But when Anne and Branwell return for the holidays?”

“The boarders will also be gone home. If necessary, the parsonage could be extended …” went on Charlotte, caught up in her vision of an independent future where they could both teach without leaving home. Privately Emily thought the scheme harebrained and impractical. It was unlikely her father would be able to find the money to finance more building work, and he would not relish the prospect of having his privacy intruded upon. Nor had she considered their aunt, or the extra burden of housework placed upon Martha, who was still too young and inexperienced to take over the cooking or heavier household chores.

“We should turn back” said Charlotte, casting an apprehensive look at the overcast skies, which threatened rain. Emily hushed her. “Listen..” They could hear the faint bleating of a lamb in distress. “It may have strayed into a beck and cannot scramble out unaided..”

“Its mother will find it” said Charlotte, anxious to be back before the heavens opened and released their burden.

“No” said Emily. “The ewe cannot hear its cries, or she is unable to rescue the lamb herself” Emily had already started towards the direction of the piteous cries.

“It may be perfectly alright” said Charlotte, attempting to restrain her “Sounds travel strangely on the heath”

“I must see for myself” insisted Emily, breaking away from her sister “If the lamb is trapped it will surely drown…” Charlotte remained where she stood, uncertain whether she should follow or wait for Emily to reappear. The latter had scrambled down a rocky incline and soon disappeared from sight. After an interval of some twenty minutes, she saw Emily’s figure in the distance. She was carrying a small sodden bundle in her arms.

“The lamb was scarcely moving, wedged between rocks” said Emily, chafing the little body in the folds of her cloak in order to get the blood circulating “The little one is grinding its teeth, look, and its legs are stiff: it would not have lasted much longer in the cold water…”

“Come, let us go home” said Charlotte impatiently. As she spoke thunder cracked overhead and a sheet of lightning lit the sky. They hurried back the way they had come, getting drenched in the process. Their father was waiting anxiously by the door. Emily was more concerned about her invalid than getting out of her wet garments and into something dry, and eventually the lamb was wrapped in a woollen shawl and placed in a box close the fire, away from Keeper’s inquisitive nose. By the morning it had revived enough for Emily to seek out its mother on Stanbury Moor, to no avail.

“You’ll have to nurse it yersel’ now, Miss, for the other ewes won’t take to one that’s no’ their own” warned Martha. The family was used to Emily bringing back all manner of injured creatures and nursing them back to health. Emily fed the lamb warm milk from a medicinal dropper, and it remained with them until it was sturdy enough to be placed with a flock.

By March 1841 Charlotte had obtained a new situation with the White family, who resided at Upperwood House, Rawdon near Bradford. Her salary was half that of Anne’s, but she had taken the position because it was only nine miles from the Nusseys at Brookroyd. As a nursery governess with two small children to supervise, there were constant demands upon her time, and Charlotte was soon discontented. Once again she had little or no leisure for literary activities: “I am occupied with my small charges all day, and I am obliged to devote my evenings to sewing – making chemises, hemming cambric - which I heartily dislike...” She could no longer find solace in the imaginary world of her childhood, and before leaving Haworth had penned A Farewell to Angria. She was depressed by her inadequacies as a governess, a role she now considered herself manifestly unfit to fulfil: “What dismays and haunts me sometimes, is a conviction that I have no natural knack for my vocation. If teaching only were requisite, it would be smooth and easy; but it is the living in other people’s houses – the estrangement from one’s real character – the adoption of a cold, rigid, apathetic exterior, that is painful..” She could not help observing the sharp contrast between her own position and that of a cheerful young nursery maid employed by the Whites, whose company the children clearly preferred. “I have seen an ignorant nursery-maid who could scarcely read or write… of a robust constitution and steady, unimpressionable nerves which kept her firm under shocks, and unharassed under annoyances – manage with comparative ease a large family of spoilt children, while their governess lived amongst them a life of inexpressible misery; tyrannised over, finding her efforts to please and teach utterly vain, chagrined, distressed, worried….”

One afternoon she heard herself contemptuously referred to by Mrs. White as “that whey-faced little governess” The latter was not taken in by Charlotte’s timid exterior and considered her to be “arrogant and verging on insolence, with ideas vastly above her station.” As the year wore on her relationship with her employer deteriorated, and Charlotte became needlessly anxious about Anne’s health, always delicate - perhaps as a diversion from her own discontent. The news that her friend Mary Taylor had gone on a continental tour with her brother filled her with envy, and she began laying schemes for the future again. The parsonage, with its four existing bedrooms would have to enlarged, she wrote to her sisters. To this end she wrote a persuasive letter to their aunt, now sixty, asking for an advance to further their ambitions to set up a school for young ladies. Aunt Branwell remained cautious about investing her savings, but was willing to listen.

In April Branwell was transferred from Sowerby Bridge to Luddenden Foot, a mile up the valley – in effect a promotion, as his new title of station-master commanded the much higher salary of £130 a year. He took lodgings with a wealthy farmer and soon became acquainted with Francis Grundy, a railway engineer, with whom he frequented the two neighbouring hostelries – the Red Lion and the Anchor and Shuttle. Accompanied by Grundy, Branwell hiked across the moors to Haworth, sometimes visiting a gypsy fortune-teller whose hand they crossed with silver. He seemed reasonably content in his post, and with the security of regular wages it was not long before the artistic and literary coterie began to re-convene at the George Hotel in Bradford or the Old Cock in Halifax, where bowls of whiskey punch flowed freely. In June Branwell had his first verses published in the Halifax Guardian under his Angrian pseudonym of Northangerland, but chose to write to Charlotte of the general election in July: “As usual, the Whigs with their mill-owning supporters tried to drown out speeches from the hustings, but this time the Chartists have sided with the Tories in opposition to the new Poor Law. My friends and I celebrated the return to power of the Conservatives led by Robert Peel at the Lord Nelson in Luddenden in true Elysium fashion, Noctes Ambrosianae…”

Charlotte canvassed her brother and sisters for news, greedily pouncing on each letter as it arrived in the post. Emily and Branwell made very poor correspondents, being otherwise preoccupied, but Anne conscientiously replied to all her sister’s importunate enquiries: did she find her position congenial, how did she get on with her employers, were the children manageable, what was she reading etc. etc.

Anne had accompanied the Robinsons for their annual holiday in Scarborough, and reported that she had just finished reading Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility: “I do not think it quite so superior as Pride and Prejudice, but nevertheless enjoyed it, and now I am starting on Persuasion…” In fact she was devoting more of her time to religious studies, poring over the scriptures and devotional works such as Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologica, and The Confessions of St. Augustine. She didn’t see any point in mentioning this to Charlotte, who would only become alarmed and imagine she was on the verge of nervous collapse. The children seemed genuinely fond of her and chattered away happily as she supervised their play and escorted them on their daily walks across the sands. As for her employer, Mrs. Robinson, she was quite content to leave her children with Anne and was not disposed to interfere with the latter’s course of instruction. “I am determined to hold onto this situation for as long as possible, since the Robinsons have fully reposed their trust in me and my charges prove quite amenable” Anne concluded, little knowing that her letter – far from cheering Charlotte – had the opposite effect.

Finally, Charlotte received the news she had been hoping for. Their aunt was persuaded to lend them £100 for their joint venture, and in October Margaret Wooler offered Charlotte the good will of her school at Dewsbury Moor. After careful consideration Charlotte declined, citing as her reason that the “the site is too low and damp” and that Anne’s delicate health had to be considered. This decision left Emily completely mystified, as Miss Wooler’s proposition neatly solved the problem of finding premises for the proposed school, whilst obviating the necessity for disruptive building work at the parsonage. As a sop to Miss Wooler’s feelings, Charlotte said she thought the seaside at East Riding would offer a superior inducement to young ladies. Emily soon learned the reason for her sister’s change of heart. She had been in regular correspondence with Mary and Martha Taylor, who were now established in Brussels, with their cousins the Dixons close by. Charlotte’s idea was to spend six months on the Continent in Brussels, acquiring those attainments - French, Italian, some German - which would give them the edge over the competition in England, when they returned to set up their own school.

“You know what will happen next” Branwell warned Emily, who was home on one of his weekend visits. “She will give in her notice, and you will be dragged off to the Continent to keep her company”

“We will see about that” muttered Emily. As predicted, Charlotte resigned her position as governess with the Whites in December 1841. After much argument and heated discussion at the parsonage, Charlotte eventually got her way and Emily resigned herself to her fate, which she hoped would be of short duration. Charlotte managed to convince her that if they used some of their aunt’s money to acquire a greater proficiency in foreign languages, they would be in a better position to start up their own school and thus escape that dependency on employers they both so dreaded.

“How long will we have to stay there?” enquired Emily, worn down by Charlotte’s incessant badgering.

“Oh, only six months or so” replied Charlotte “It will be like Roe Head, but we will be pupils again, not teachers”

“We will be the oldest pupils there” pointed out Emily in a sullen tone, referring to the fact that they were now aged twenty-four and twenty-six.

“We will be so far advanced we will find it easy. And both Mary and Martha Taylor are already there” Charlotte added, as a further inducement

Chapter Six – 1842 – 1846

In February 1842, Patrick accompanied his daughters to Madame Heger’s Pensionnat de Demoiselles in the Rue d’Isabelle in Brussels, procuring seats in a diligence for much of the journey. The standard of teaching was high - with the lessons being taught in French - and their writing styles improved immeasurably under Monsieur Heger’s stringent criticism and emphasis on concise expression. Emily treated the whole experience as an unavoidable hurdle to be got over, impressing their professor with her ferocious concentration. She made rapid progress in German and became a proficient musician, prompting Constantin Heger to remark privately to his wife: “She should have been a man – a great navigator. Her powerful reason would have deduced new spheres of discovery from the knowledge of the old; and her strong imperious will would never have been daunted by opposition or difficulty…” Indeed, Charlotte seemed in awe of her younger sister, whose misanthropic nature caused her untold embarrassment. Their English friends, the Wheelwrights, found Emily morose and monosyllabic, and eventually stopped inviting them to their house in the Rue Royale.

“We like you” they insisted to Charlotte “But Emily is so brusque it is awkward when she is there – can you not come on your own?” But Charlotte declined any invitations that excluded her sister. As for their fellow pupils, Charlotte wrote of them in unflattering terms to her friend Ellen: “They remind me of nothing so much as cows chewing the cud with their vacant bovine expressions…” provoking Emily to comment “Cows are more intelligent” The Bronte sisters stood out since all the other girls were Belgian as well as being Catholic. Although Charlotte was quite content with her situation and the stimulus of a new environment, Emily was not. The latter had no interest on conversing with her classmates, and when one of the girls voiced aloud the wish that they did not have to share a communal dormitory with that “hateful, queer English girl” Emily seized hold of her and deposited her in a broom cupboard. “There. Your wish is granted – you now have your own room”

Academically, they were both exemplary pupils and the regular exercises and composition work set by Constantin Heger had the effect of curbing Charlotte’s tendency towards excessive verbosity.

“Remember: it is best to say nothing at all if you cannot express yourself in accordance with the classical ideals - which are?” He waited for their answer.

“Order, clarity, proportion, good taste” responded Charlotte automatically.

“Yes, if you cannot order your thoughts, so as to express them clearly and accurately, you might as well not bother to write at all. Mlle Emily, what are meant by the classical ideals of proportion and good taste?”

“Restraint in language, avoiding redundancy of expression…” muttered Emily in a bored tone. Whereas Charlotte positively revelled in Monsieur Heger’s attention, craving his approval, Emily merely wished to be left alone to pursue her studies independently. She had made a serious study of German with the object of reading Goethe and Schiller in their original language, and felt that she did not need the distraction of endless translations of classical French dramatists.

“Bon. Pure language is like the lines of pure architecture: nothing superfluous, nothing out of place….”

After six months in Brussels, Charlotte approached Mme Heger privately, seeking a reduction in their terms and fees. The time had passed all too quickly and she felt that a course of further study would stand them in good stead for the future. The latter was persuaded to keep them on at a reduced rate in return for some teaching, and it was agreed between them that Charlotte would teach English and Emily music. This proposal was presented to Emily as originating from Mme Heger, and Emily was once more forced to give in under the onslaught of her sister’s arguments.

* * * *

At Luddenden Foot Branwell was summoned before the auditors of the Railway Board: there appeared to be some discrepancy in the accounts, and although there was no question of him having misappropriated funds, as Station-Master he was held responsible for the shortfall. The margins of the account ledgers were found to be full of idle pen and ink sketches, but what really tipped the balance was the discovery that he was in the habit of taking himself off for rambles in the district, leaving his porter in charge. The safety of passengers was paramount in the eyes of the Board, and Branwell’s absence from his post was a dereliction of duty that could not be overlooked. His conduct was deemed unsatisfactory and he was unexpectedly dismissed. Branwell returned to Haworth, once again unemployed, accompanied by his friend Francis Grundy. The latter pleaded Branwell’s case to his disappointed father.

“The porter was perfectly competent, sir, and Branwell was not away for very long – not above two hours. The railway companies are extremely intolerant of even the most petty misdemeanours – there have been three other dismissals on the line this year alone!”

“All the more reason for taking your responsibilities more seriously” rejoined Patrick, looking at his son sternly “You cannot trifle with these men, and you will not now be able to get a character reference” In an attempt to placate his father, Branwell showed him the encouraging response he had received from the novelist Harriet Martineau, to whom he had recently sent specimens of his work. He had also written to the essayist and poet Leigh Hunt, and his poems had been appearing in local newspapers - the Bradford Herald, the Halifax Guardian, and Leeds Intelligencer.

“Be that as it may, you still need to earn a living. Chasing a literary career is an ignis fatuus that will do you more harm than good. Nothing can come of it”

“I will keep my eyes and ears open, sir, for another opportunity” ventured Francis, who was beginning to feel awkward. Patrick glanced sharply at him. He did not wish to appear discourteous – he was usually a polite and affable host - but he had not expected his son to arrive home with a companion in tow, doubtless a tactic to deflect his wrath.

“You are a railway engineer?” enquired Patrick. Francis nodded, then added “Your son is quite respected in the locality, sir: indeed, several local merchants have petitioned for his reinstatement, and this may all be forgotten after some time has passed”

“Hmmm. Branwell, see that your guest is made comfortable. Now, I have various matters to attend to, but we will talk of this further tomorrow” Thus dismissed, the pair retreated to the passage, where aunt Elizabeth’s querulous voice could be heard from upstairs, calling for her nephew.

“Branwell, dear, are you home again? Come and read to your poor old aunt: you have such a good reading voice”

“I shall have to go - wait for me in the parlour. That was a masterstroke mentioning the petition - I had completely forgotten it. Coming, aunt!” Branwell bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. After kissing his aunt, he answered her questions patiently, and read to her for about twenty minutes until she dozed off, murmuring “such a dear, sweet boy….”

“Your father is quite the patriarch - just as I imagined him” chuckled Francis, when Branwell reappeared. He had been impressed by Patrick’s gravitas and quiet dignity.

“I warned you the Old Cossack would not be easily mollified, but I got off quite lightly because you were there. Now stir your stumps, my hearty, and I will conduct you on a guided tour of Haworth” The tour encompassed the Masonic lodge, Brandy Row, the ducking stool and well at the bottom of Cold Street, Back Lane, and Changegate - before Francis was finally borne off to the White Lion where they spent a convivial evening.

There was further unrest in the countryside and August 1842 saw riots by mill workers, who sabotaged the machinery in factories. Led by the Chartists, ten thousand men gathered on Lees Moor not far from Haworth, and Branwell rashly offered to join the volunteer constables to see off the threat. Patrick forbade him to go anywhere near the riots, and instead made sure he was fully occupied with teaching Sunday school, and took every opportunity to accompany his son to lectures and concerts. Branwell proved surprisingly popular with the school children, capering up down in front of them whilst he acted out scenes from the Bible, causing them to shriek with laughter.

In October, Patrick’s former curate William Weightman, contracted cholera through visiting those afflicted with the disease, and died aged only 28. The premature death of this lively young man of whom they had all been so fond, deeply affected Patrick and Branwell, who both attended him on his deathbed. Owing to their shared artistic interests Branwell had become quite close to him, and gently teased him on one of his visits: “I believe I recognise you, sir. Aren’t you one of those ninnies who is always making sheep’s eyes at my sister?” (referring to his playful flirtation with Anne, who had always been too shy to return his interest) Weightman laughed weakly, and asked Branwell to convey his compliments to his sister, even managing a quote from King Lear the day before he expired.

Men must endure

Their going hence, even as their coming hither:

Ripeness is all.

Not long after this, Patrick’s sister-in-law became very ill and began to waste away before their eyes. A doctor was fetched in, and after diagnosing an “internal obstruction”, imparted the sad news that she did not have much longer to live. Patrick immediately wrote to Charlotte and Emily, but by the time the news reached them and they had sailed from Antwerp, their aunt was already dead. Anne arrived home in time for the funeral, to find her brother in a state of distress. His friend Francis had written to enquire why he had not heard from him, and the latter had eventually responded: “I have had a long attendance at the death-bed of Mr. Weightman, one of my dearest friends, and now I am attending the death-bed of my aunt, who has been for twenty years as my mother. I expect her to die in a few hours”. A few days later, with Anne now at home, he wrote: “I am incoherent, I fear, but I have been waking two nights witnessing such agonised suffering as I would not wish my worst enemy to endure; and I have now lost the guide and director of all the happy days connected with my childhood”.

Each niece was left a legacy of £300 - currently invested in railway shares - with nothing for her nephew save some personal mementos. Branwell harboured no resentment at his aunt’s bequest, and was genuinely grieved at her death. After all, her will had been made ten years ago when the entire family were convinced Branwell had a brilliant career ahead of him, and his sisters’ future had looked uncertain. Anne now mentioned that the Robinson’s young son Edmund had grown too old for a nursery governess, and that it was their intention to appoint a private tutor.

“You should apply for the position” Anne urged her brother “I have already put in a good word for you” This was just the kind of opening Branwell had been waiting for, and he lost no time in drafting a letter of application.

“Strike whilst the iron is hot” agreed Patrick, who was inclined to be sympathetic after witnessing Branwell’s compassion towards his aunt. Charlotte was anxious to return to Brussels – much to everyone’s surprise, as Mary Taylor had now gone to Germany as a teacher, her younger sister having died tragically whilst they were in Brussels together.

“Well, I will certainly not be going back there” declared Emily in a mutinous tone.

“Yes, my dear” agreed her father “It makes sense for you to remain here as housekeeper, since Martha is far too young to be left in charge, but Charlotte, what is to be gained by returning to the Continent? You have surely acquired sufficient qualifications to be able to set up on your own” Emily strongly suspected her sister’s determination to continue at the Pensionnat for another year was connected with her attachment to Monsieur Heger, but kept silent. As usual Charlotte got her way, and once again sailed to Brussels - this time on her own – in January 1843.

Branwell was successful in his application, and he and Anne departed for Thorp Green in the New Year. Anne was soon able to settle back into her familiar routine of teaching the girls, who had grown inordinately fond of their sweet-tempered young governess, but Branwell was finding it difficult to adjust. For a while he brooded on why he had been excluded from his aunt’s will: had he somehow lost her respect and approval over the past few years? Eventually he concluded she had not meant anything by it, and that his father’s innocent explanation (that her will had been made years ago when it was thought he would have no difficulty supporting himself) was the most likely one. Branwell was all too aware that his father had no capital to fall back on, relying upon his annual stipend which would cease on his death, and could not help contrasting his uncertain future with that of his friends. Leyland was rapidly gaining a name for himself as a talented young sculptor, and was never short of commissions. Grundy had an established career as engineer with the railways, and John Brown had a secure trade as a stonemason, in addition to being sexton of St. Michael’s church.

Branwell had come to realise that it was unlikely he would ever find recognition as a writer: no matter how many established authors he approached, none of them seemed willing or able to help him get published. He would have to continue tutoring, dependent upon the whims of his employers, since he was not qualified to do much else. His sisters had been given a very real opportunity to become financially independent through their aunt’s legacy: although £300 was not a fortune it represented nearly three years’ salary, and would have come in very useful. Patrick had advised his daughters to leave their capital where it was, as surety against a time when they might need to draw upon it. For the first time in his life Branwell did not feel at all confident about his future, which filled him with vague forebodings and feelings of dread. Visions of the workhouse or the debtors’ gaol rose up before him, which in normal circumstances he would have banished with the aid of his wide circle of friends. Unlike his sister, Branwell did not live with his employers at Thorp Green but had taken private lodgings, and therefore had more time to dwell on his morbid fears. He was gregarious by nature and in Haworth he had the Masonic lodge, his boxing club, as well as his drinking cronies to fall back on. These familiar props were no longer available to him and he felt isolated and cast adrift, so much so that he succumbed to an attack of bronchitis and was confined to bed for a few days.

Patrick had heard of his son’s illness through one of Anne’s letters, and decided to pay him a visit in March as he had business in York requiring him to testify in a court case. He found Branwell somewhat subdued, with a lingering cough, but otherwise holding up.

“I thought we could dine out if you are feeling up to it” Branwell perked up at the prospect of enlivening company, and Patrick hired a gig to take them into York. With Branwell muffled in a scarf against the cold, they drove around the mediaeval walled city, marvelling at the Minster and other buildings of architectural interest before halting at a tavern just off the Shambles. Ensconced in a snug, with a bottle of porter and a hot toddy for Branwell’s throat, Patrick ordered mutton stew followed by Beef Wellington.

“What has been happening in Haworth?” asked Branwell, his spirits revived by the hearty dinner and convivial surroundings.

“The new curate, an Irishman called James Smith, is a very poor substitute for Weightman” sighed Patrick “but I must tolerate him for the present: according to the census the population of the parish has doubled in size since I first took on the incumbency”

“I hope he is not one of those ranting Calvinists who constantly berates his fellow humans for the unpardonable sin of being born” His father gave a wry smile.

“No, but he is from that order of men who sets his own comfort before that of the flock he tends”

“They ‘hunt good Livings but abhor Good Lives’ as the Earl of Rochester put it” commented Branwell.

“I fear he is lazy and dishonest - time will tell. How do you get on with the Robinsons?”

“Tolerably well” replied Branwell, with a shrug. “Edmund is well-mannered, and my employers are considerate; I am to accompany them to Scarborough later in the year, along with Anne, whose abilities are rated highly by the family”

“Yes, I am impressed by Anne’s steadiness. She has lasted three years now, with not one word of complaint. She is a hardy little soul”

“And what of Emily?” asked Branwell.

“Emily does very well, tending the garden and flowers, and she is an excellent housekeeper. Her character is of that fixed nature which finds happiness in constancy, and does not require outside stimulus. I have never known anyone to work so hard, scrubbing, scouring – I do not know where she gets her stamina from” Branwell cocked an eyebrow.

“From you, of course, Papa. You think nothing of tramping twenty miles to resolve a marital dispute. How does the court case at York Assizes progress?”

“Very badly. Despite my best efforts, the poor wretch is to be hanged. He looked desolate when I left his cell: I have spent the best part of the morning offering up what spiritual consolation I could, and he clung to me like a small child…” Patrick shook his head sadly. Catching sight of his son’s gloomy look, he continued “Oh, I forgot to mention Tabby has now returned to live at the parsonage: as you know she has always had a soft spot for Emily, and their reunion was an affectionate one. Young Martha continues to marvel at the ‘fair flaysome weather’ we are having” Branwell laughed. “And the sexton sends you his regards: they miss your lively organ-playing at the Lodge”

“I shall write to Emily and to John Brown” resolved Branwell. “And tell Tabby I have never tasted such scones as hers, and that she must make a batch when Anne and I return for the Easter break” When Patrick deposited Branwell at his lodgings later that evening, his son seemed to have recovered some of his old exuberance and asked to be remembered to everyone at the parsonage.

Life went on much as usual in Haworth, with Emily and Tabby working side by side in the kitchen – kneading dough for bread or peeling vegetables. On wash days Martha would keep them entertained with gossip from the village whilst she took turns to plunge the wooden dolly into the big copper tub, agitating the clothes. When Emily had finished her chores she took her midday walk across the moors, accompanied by Keeper and Flossy, the spaniel given to Anne by the Robinson children. In the evenings she kept up with her studies in the front parlour, using Keeper as a backrest as they both sprawled contentedly by the fire. She had begun to transcribe her poems into two separate notebooks - one labelled Gondal Poems and other Personal. She wrote letters to Anne and Branwell, enclosing outlandish tales from Gondal – such fragments as she thought might amuse them. To Charlotte she wrote that the bulk of their savings were invested with the York & North Midland Railway and the remainder with the Reeth Consolidated Mining Company, adding “I hope the little French despot is not proving too harsh a taskmaster, and that you have not yet taken on the phlegmatic characteristics of your bovine charges”

In return Anne sent her a poem of her own, simply entitled Home, which conveyed something of her homesickness:

How brightly glistening in the sun

The woodland ivy plays!

While yonder beeches from their barks

Reflect his silver rays.

That sun surveys a lovely scene

From softly smiling skies;

And wildly through unnumbered trees

The wind of winter sighs:

Now loud, it thunders o’er my head,

And now in distance dies.

But give me back my barren hills

Where colder breezes rise;

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees

Can yield an answering swell,

But where a wilderness of heath

Returns the sound as well.

For yonder garden, fair and wide,

With groves of evergreen,

Long winding walks, and borders trim,

And velvet lawns between;

Restore to me that little spot,

With gray walls compassed round,

Where knotted grass neglected lies,

And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high

Invites the foot to roam,

And though its halls are fair within –

Oh, give me back my HOME!

Emily smiled. The poem was so sincere and artless, the sentiments expressed therein so heartfelt that she felt a rush of affection for her younger sister, prompting her to pen another short note.

“Dearest Anne,

Give me some credit! I think you will find that I have indeed restored that little spot, and that the grass no longer lies neglected, and the usurping weeds have been pulled up by the roots. Think of me toiling in the garden beneath the stunted trees as you trip across the velvet lawns in your long winding walks, your young charges in tow. Not too much longer now, and we shall all be reunited under one roof at Christmas.

Your loving sister,

Emily

“Keeper, your solid bulk is more comforting than any chair could be” murmured Emily to her sole confidant. “Doubtless Aunt would have chastised me for such an unladylike sprawl, but she is not here so we can please ourselves - would you not agree?” Keeper thumped his tail on the floor in assent. He rarely disagreed with his mistress, and it was pleasant to lie by the fire whilst she alternately read passages from Goethe and addressed her remarks to him alone. “Do you know, I think I prefer your company to that of any other?” Keeper gazed at her, secure in their mutual devotion, and shifted slightly so that she could settle herself more comfortably against his tawny flank.

In May there was agitation in Ireland to repeal the 1801 Act of Union, which greatly alarmed Patrick, who had relatives there and feared civil war would break out. He wrote to the Leeds Intelligencer: “I am a friend to liberty of conscience and political liberty; but I am an open and avowed enemy to hypocrisy, false zeal, revolutionary principles, and all those motives and movements which can have for their end only what is doubtful, or extremely exceptionable and bad” The present situation, he concluded, was the result of “a restless disposition for change, an untoward ambition, a recklessness of consequences, and a struggle for power and predominance”

In Brussels relations between Charlotte and Mme Heger had completely broken down. Without Emily or her former friends, the Taylors and Dixons to sustain her, she became despondent. At the end of a long lonely year she finally returned to Haworth in January1844. Her father was now sixty-six with failing eyesight, a source of distress since reading was one of his greatest pleasures. Charlotte read aloud to him when she could, trying to avoid alarming or depressing reports in the newspapers. There was a severe potato blight in Ireland, with widespread famine, and a million had already died.

“It is all bad news, Charlotte” he said, shaking his head in dismay “How the people must be suffering”

“There is nothing to be done about it, Papa. We must hope and pray that the authorities are providing adequate relief for the starving”

Whilst in Brussels, strange reports had reached Charlotte of her brother’s abrupt mood changes – from the heights of ecstasy to the depths of despair - and she began to question Emily, who looked blank. Once Anne and Branwell returned home for the holidays, Charlotte took the former aside. Piecing together hints dropped by Anne, Charlotte now voiced her suspicions concerning Branwell’s entanglement with his employer’s wife, Lydia Robinson, who was seventeen years his senior.

“I do not know” replied Anne, looking troubled. “But they speak often together, and Branwell has conceived an affection for her”

“Is it reciprocated?” asked Charlotte.

“I know very little” said Anne hesitantly “And I would not wish to speak out of turn. Possibly it is nothing” Charlotte did not think it was nothing, and said as much to Emily privately, who looked at her.

“And what of your obsessive and secretive correspondence with Monsieur Heger – is that nothing?” Charlotte blanched.

“What are you talking about?”

“When a letter arrives with a French postmark and you snatch it up like a starving dog, the servants talk. It is hardly likely that you would be corresponding with Madame Heger, since you complain of her coldness towards you”

“It is only natural that I should wish to maintain contact with my professor, and to continue to seek his advice on certain educational matters” blustered Charlotte, caught off guard. Emily laughed softly to herself.

“Natural? Have a care, Charlotte, that you do not demean yourself”

Anne and Branwell returned to Thorp Green, Charlotte none the wiser about her brother’s mysterious conduct. Whilst home for the holidays he had met up with Grundy and Leyland in Bradford, drinking to excess, and they hardly saw anything of him except when Ellen came to stay for a few days. At home Charlotte felt increasingly restless. Although she and Emily still walked out together on the moors, she felt that her sister did not really need her company. In March she seized the opportunity to return Ellen’s visit for two weeks.

“Sometimes I am so lonely” confided Charlotte to her friend “Although I have Emily, she is so self-contained it is almost as if I were not there”

“She is not like other people” agreed Ellen. Roe Head had been such a small school that all the girls knew each other, despite the difference in ages. She now showed Charlotte a letter she had received from Emily the previous May, in reply to a request from Ellen for information whilst Charlotte was still on the Continent:

‘Dear Miss Nussey,

I should be wanting in common civility if I did not thank you for your kindness in letting me know of an opportunity to send postage free.

‘I have written as you directed, though if next Tuesday means to-morrow I fear it will be too late. Charlotte has never mentioned a word about coming home. If you would go over for half-a-year, perhaps you might be able to bring her back with you – otherwise, she might vegetate there till the age of Methuselah for mere lack of courage to face the voyage.

‘All here are in good health; so was Anne according to her last account. The holidays will be here in a week or two, and then, if she be willing, I will get her to write you a proper letter, a feat that I have never performed.

With love and good wishes, Emily J. Bronte

“It is such a formal and barren epistle” said Ellen “She is always kind and polite, but she still addresses me as “Miss Nussey” and writes so infrequently, although postage is so much cheaper these days with the penny black. I do not think she cares for me as much as I care for her”

“Do not take it to heart. She regards epistolary correspondence as a waste of time and energy”

“Do you think she is capable of forming a deep and lasting attachment?” asked Ellen earnestly. Charlotte thought of how her sister had shunned all social intercourse at the Pensionnat in Brussels, before replying “She and Anne are very close, but I do not believe Emily has the gift of friendship. She will never marry for such is her temperament”

“Just think, if you had married Henry, both you and she would be my sisters” said Ellen playfully.

“Well, that was not to be” said Charlotte, laughing “But what of your unfortunate suitor Mr. Vincent? ”

“I could not return his affections” replied Ellen “He was let down as lightly as possible. And I have heard nothing from your curate after my last visit to Haworth”

“Mr. Smith has gone to Ireland for six weeks, and nobody misses him. He has never asked after you once since you left, so I conclude that his regard for you was never genuine in the first place” The new curate James Smith had attempted a half-hearted flirtation with Ellen, having met with no encouragement from the Minister’s daughters. “Papa was quite uneasy on your account and expressly told me to tell you that you should not allow your affections to be engaged in that quarter”

“There is no danger of that” laughed Ellen. When Charlotte returned to Haworth she presented Emily with a gift of flower seeds from Ellen: “She wants to know why you hardly ever write, and thinks you do not like her”

“Oh, I like her well enough. She is thoughtful and generous, and a true friend to you” replied Emily noncommittally. In June Charlotte invited Ellen to the parsonage, since Anne and Branwell were back from Thorp Green. Branwell was his usual charming self, and diverted the company with his witty sallies and pointed sarcasms, chiefly at the expense of his father’s curates Smith and Grant. The latter had assumed some parish duties in Smith’s absence, and had taken to dropping in at the parsonage with a friend or two. One afternoon when three clerics were present, Branwell button-holed Smith, under the pretext of offering some manly advice.

“Both my younger sisters are spoken for, but you may yet prove successful with Charlotte who – I have it on the strictest authority - scolded Miss Nussey with undue severity for declining your proposal”

“You must be mistaken. There was no proposal” muttered Smith, looking mortified.

“Come, sir, your rebuttal speaks volumes. I only meant to redirect your attentions to more receptive ears. Miss Nussey is a lost cause. I can assure you your proposal was greeted with the utmost hilarity at the parsonage, and afforded us all much merriment for many days after” Smith looked wrathful and gulped down his tea. Charlotte had no idea what her brother was saying, but when he went on to address the third cleric in confidential tones, she surprised everyone with an unexpected witticism of her own: “Lo, it is the Ancient Mariner. He stoppeth one in three”

Anne and Ellen were trying to contain their mirth as Emily - dubbed “The Major” by Charlotte - took up her habitual stance against the mantelpiece, her dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown as she fended off the unwelcome advances and over-familiarity of prospective suitors. The spectacle of these hapless curates attempting to conduct a courtship under “The Major’s” fierce gaze was comical, and nobody could take any of their protestations or blandishments seriously. As Grant waxed eloquent on Charlotte’s supposed charms, Emily’s lip curled with scorn. When Charlotte taxed her with her odd behaviour later that evening, she responded: “What is odd is that you should give him any sort of encouragement. It is plain for all who have eyes to see that he covets Papa’s comfortable living. He wishes to exchange his lowly lodgings for the rectory, and you are the stepping stone to his desired end”

“You do not think I possess sufficient charms to capture a suitor’s heart, then?” Charlotte enquired lightly.

“I did not mean that” said Emily hastily “You have many admirable qualities, but none that he could appreciate or discover with his own efforts”

In July the church trustees were invited to tea at the parsonage to celebrate the success of the new national school Patrick had tirelessly campaigned for. The Rands, who had been appointed Master and Mistress of the new school, were also invited along with the vicar of Bradford, and Tabby had prepared a collation fit for a king. Patrick took the opportunity to draw their attention to Haworth’s inadequate water supply. Although the parsonage had its own private well in the back yard fed by spring water running off the moor, there were only two public wells in the village - the Head Well in the upper part of the town and the Brigg Well in the lower part - which meant that over 150 residents were dependent on the Head Well, with women queuing at 3am to obtain water for washing. This water was frequently tainted by overflow from the midden-steads, and Patrick had arranged for an inspection to take place the previous month, with representatives from the Board being harangued for well nigh on an hour before they were eventually admitted indoors to partake of tea at the parsonage. He had conducted them on a tour of the village through the narrow cobbled streets and ginnels of Lord’s Lane, West Lane and Back Lane – the Chairman holding a cambric handkerchief to his nose – as Patrick pointed out the walled enclosures into which offal and entrails from slaughterhouses, night-soil and refuse from privies were hurled. His present guests were now comfortably seated in the front parlour, where Charlotte was dispensing tea and cakes.

“It is entirely unacceptable in this enlightened age that the women of the village should have to toil up the steep hill to the Head Well with buckets” said Patrick.

“What do you propose?” enquired Mr. Rand, somewhat put out that nobody seemed interested in hearing of his achievements at the new school, which was after all the purpose of the gathering.

“What I propose, gentlemen, is a modern system of pipes laid down so that a sufficient supply of pure and wholesome water is delivered directly to households”

“These windswept moors breed hardy people, like the sheep. It will do them no harm, surely” said the deacon mildly, helping himself to a baked custard tart.

“I suppose the villagers must all draw their water from wells and carry jugs upon their heads as in biblical times, because it will do them no harm!” expostulated Patrick, becoming increasingly exasperated at the lacklustre response “What kind of an argument is that, pray?”

“These poor women have quite enough to do with scrubbing their cottages, and caring for their husbands and children” interposed Emily, as her father continued, “If it within our power to improve the lot of the common people, then should we not act to do so?”

“Women should confine themselves to sewing and piecrust-making” remarked Mr. Smith with a meaningful smirk, as Emily glowered in his direction. “To my mind there is nothing more repulsive than a shrill-voiced harridan who will insist on giving you her opinions” Emily bridled under this offensive, which was entirely motivated by malice, as she had not shown the slightest interest in his overtures. Charlotte glanced at her sister with some alarm. It was not Emily’s custom to engage in “shrill” dispute, but to quietly observe. In conversation which interested her her features became animated and mobile, but in repose her aspect was that of a graven image: there was a force and depth within which did not invite intimacy, and kept strangers at arms length. Emily was now moved enough to respond in kind.

“And to my mind, there is nothing more repellent than listening to the senseless prattle and insincere professions of piety from frock-coated curates” Smith waxed livid and left his plate untouched, on this occasion sacrificing his natural appetite to spleen. Charlotte, who felt that her sister had transgressed the bounds of decorum, ushered her out of the parlour and quietly remonstrated with her in the kitchen. For her part Emily declared that Smith possessed not one whit of their father’s compassion or scholarship, and that his sentiments were not worth a farthing. Ever scornful of hypocrisy and “whited sepulchres” she refused to apologise, and grave offence was taken. Mr. Smith was unfortunately the sort who bore grudges, and Emily’s demeanour and conduct towards him would not be lightly forgotten. He departed for the curacy of Keighley two months later, and was not in the least missed by the parishioners.

* * * *

In February 1845 Charlotte visited Mary Taylor shortly before the latter emigrated to New Zealand with her brother, where she intended to open her own shop. Envious of her friend’s self-sufficiency and financial independence, Charlotte immediately resumed her plans to open a school at the parsonage, which would accommodate half a dozen female boarders. Emily would move in with Charlotte, and the pupils would sleep in the little schoolroom and Branwell’s bedchamber. When her brother heard of this he wrote to Emily “This is typical of Charlotte. Apart from an unwarrantable of invasion of Papa’s privacy, where are we supposed to reside when Anne and I are home for the holidays? As usual, she consults no-one’s interests but her own. I suppose Papa has been cajoled into agreement, against his better judgement” Oblivious to any objections, Charlotte set about devising prospectuses, which were printed up at her own expense, and began to send out circulars to all her contacts and acquaintances. Three months passed and there were still no takers for the school.

Despite Charlotte’s strenuous efforts and the expenditure on advertising, they could not secure one pupil. The dream of being self-supporting whilst remaining together under one roof was in tatters, and the scheme had to be abandoned. Charlotte continued to correspond with her erstwhile professor, waiting in vain for a reply, which, when it came was brief and formally correct. She suspected that Mme Heger –known for her surreptitious methods of surveillance - was opening her letters, and dictating the manner of her husband’s response. In May she was diverted by the arrival of the replacement curate for Mr. Smith, the Reverend Arthur Bell Nicholls, who lodged nearby with the Browns at the sexton’s cottage. Born in Ireland of Scots parents, he had been orphaned at seven and brought up by an uncle, but otherwise not much was known about him. He soon struck up an acquaintance with Smith, now curate of Keighley, who warned him of the hostility he might expect to encounter from the sisters at the parsonage.

“They are all blue-stockings of the first order, and the tallest of the three is an ill-mannered termagant who should be avoided at all costs. It is unfortunate that the Reverend Bronte does not see fit to curb the tongues of his daughters” Mr. Smith was of the opinion that the scold’s bridle and ducking stool should be reinstated for women who spoke out of turn, but kept these sentiments to himself.

Anne was back home in June and she and Emily decided to take a short break of their own, and journeyed to York between June 30th and July 2nd. Whilst they were away, Charlotte discovered a manuscript of Emily’s poems, and was so impressed by their originality that she attempted to persuade her sister to publish them. This occasioned an argument between the two, prompting Anne to record in her journal:

Charlotte claims to have “accidentally” stumbled upon some of Emily’s poems, and was expressing her admiration in the warmest terms. Emily is the most private and reserved individual I have ever come across, and she was furious that her things had been disturbed. She always locks her desk when she goes out, and Charlotte was dying of curiosity to know what she and Branwell are always writing and laughing about. Emily then turned on her, saying it was an “unwarrantable liberty” and that there was nothing accidental about it. I tried not to take sides, but I couldn’t help agreeing with Emily that she could not have stumbled across them by accident since her poems are written in the minuscule lettering we have employed since childhood, and Charlotte is so short-sighted she must have expended considerable effort in deciphering them! Emily raged “Don’t ever touch my desk again, and stay out of my room!” (her room is only about 9’ x 5’, just a box room, and we jokingly referred to it as Emily’s boudoir, after the French novels we were reading at the time) Charlotte was so upset she was crying and kept apologising. Emily is the only one of us who is capable of reducing Charlotte to tears - she is so in awe of Emily on account of her poetical genius, but eventually Emily calmed down.

Charlotte is sitting sewing beside me, and I am in the rocking-chair before the fire with my feet on the fender, having just begun the third volume of Passages in the Life of an Individual. Emily is ironing. When she is angry she works harder than ever and thumps the iron about. We have not yet finished our Gondal Chronicles, and whether we ever shall I do not know. The young sovereigns, with their brothers and sisters, are still at the Palace of Instruction…

Wearied by her recent setbacks, Charlotte set off for a visit to Ellen at Hathersage in Derbyshire. She returned to Haworth three weeks later to learn that Anne had resigned her situation at Thorp Green. After some gentle coaxing, Charlotte eventually managed to wheedle out of her the reason she had left her position so abruptly. One afternoon Anne had visited her brother at his lodgings, as Mr. Robinson had apparently banned him from going anywhere near the house.

“But why?” Her sisters looked dumbfounded “Go on, Anne, tell us what happened next” Branwell had asked his sister to convey a private note to Mrs. Robinson. Anne had been shocked and demurred, saying “I’m sorry, Branwell, but it would be very wrong. She is another man’s wife and it is a sin before God” Branwell had then snatched the letter from her hand angrily.

“It seems as though you are destined for the cloister. Get thee to a nunnery” Deeply upset by Branwell’s uncharacteristic show of temper towards her, and feeling her position was no longer tenable, Anne had decided to tender her resignation. The recollection caused her eyes to fill with tears. Charlotte set her mouth in a thin line, and Emily put a consoling hand on her younger sister’s shoulder.

“Do not take it to heart. Besides, you are too pure to ever be a nun” Their suspicions received concrete proof when Branwell was dismissed shortly afterwards. He had actually been at home whilst the Robinsons took their annual summer holiday, when he received the curt note of dismissal. There was speculation by John Brown that Branwell had also travelled to Scarborough unbeknownst to the family, in order to continue his secret trysts with Mrs. Robinson, and their servant had come across them in the boathouse below their cliff top lodgings.

Shocked at his sudden reversal of fortune, Branwell became physically ill. He deeply regretted involving his innocent younger sister, and felt keenly the weight of his father’s displeasure. Patrick had listened to his son’s account in stony silence, before suggesting that a complete change of scene might be salutary. Branwell accordingly sailed to Liverpool accompanied by John Brown, whom it was hoped would have a steadying influence. As an older married man with children of his own, the sexton was tasked with keeping an eye on Branwell. They took a pleasure steamer along the north Welsh coast, with Branwell making desultory sketches and nursing an attack of neuralgia - treated with a vial of laudanum procured in Liverpool. Revived by the fresh sea breezes and the grandeur of the scenery, he began to compose a poem entitled Penmaenmawr, which contained covert references to Lydia Robinson.

Branwell returned from Liverpool in September and wrote to Francis Grundy, asking whether he could find him another position on the railways. The latter replied that – as a lowly engineer - he did not have any influence with the Committee, but urged him to apply all the same. Branwell had heard that a new line had been proposed which would link up the Manchester and Liverpool Railway with the Leeds and Bradford Railway, and immediately applied for the post of Secretary to the Railroad Committee. Not surprisingly, he was unsuccessful in his application. In desperation, Branwell sent his coded poem to Leyland:

“…I have no other way, not pregnant with danger, of communicating with one whom I cannot help loving. Printed lines, with my usual signature, “Northangerland,” could excite no suspicion – as my late unhappy employer shrank from the bare idea of my being able to write anything, and had a day’s sickness after hearing that Macaulay had sent me a complimentary letter; so he won’t know the name…I sent through a private channel one letter of comfort in her great and agonizing present afflictions, but I recalled it through dread of the consequences of a discovery…I suffer very much from that mental exhaustion which arises from brooding on matters useless at present to think of, – and active employment would be my greatest cure and blessing…”

Some months after his dismissal rumours reached Patrick’s ears that Branwell had engineered another clandestine meeting with Mrs. Robinson in Harrogate, causing him to remonstrate sternly with his son over the continued correspondence. However, the fact that Mrs. Robinson – who was old enough to know better – had actually colluded in this caused him to apportion much of the blame in that quarter.

Charlotte poured out her feelings to Miss Wooler:

“You ask about Branwell. He never thinks of seeking employment, and I begin to fear he has rendered himself incapable of filling any respectable station in life; besides, if money were at his disposal he would use it only to his own injury; the faculty of self-government is, I fear, almost destroyed in him. You ask me if I do not think men are strange beings. I do, indeed – I have often thought so; and I think too that the mode of bringing them up is strange, they are not half sufficiently guarded from temptations. Girls are protected as if they were something very frail and silly indeed, while boys are turned loose on the world as if they, of all beings in existence, were the wisest and the least liable to be led astray…I speculate much on the existence of unmarried and never-to-be-married women now-a-days; and I have already got to the point of considering that there is no more respectable character on this earth than an unmarried woman, who makes her own way through life quietly, perseveringly, without support of husband or brother; and who, having attained the age of forty-five or upwards, retains in her possession a well-regulated mind, a disposition to enjoy simple pleasures, and fortitude to support inevitably pains, sympathy with the sufferings of others, and willingness to relieve want as far as her means extend.”

In December, Branwell’s poem Penmaenmawr was published in the Halifax Guardian, but the complimentary reviews did little to lift his depression. In the meantime, since discovering Emily’s poems Charlotte had come to the conclusion that it might be possible for them to earn their living by writing. She had been thinking upon these lines for several years, but Emily’s stubbornness was the main obstacle. Choosing her words with caution, Charlotte proposed her idea that they should attempt to get published. Finally – after much persuasion – Emily agreed, but only on condition that their identity was to remain a secret and they were all to use male pseudonyms. They decided to retain their own initials - Ellis for Emily, Currer for Charlotte, and Acton for Anne.

“What surname should we use?” asked Anne. Plucking a name out of the ether (the new curate Arthur Bell Nicholls came to mind) Charlotte suggested Bell, which was accepted by the others. Emily made some slight amendments to certain poems so that all specific references to Gondal were removed, and a final selection was determined upon. Charlotte contributed 19 – most of which had been written years ago when she was at Roe Head – and Emily and Anne, whose poems were of much more recent origin, contributed 21 each. When they were finally satisfied with the results Charlotte wrote to the publishers Aylott & Jones in January, requesting an estimate for the cost of printing.

“But that is over three quarters of my salary at Thorp Green” pointed out Anne, when the estimate arrived in the post “Don’t you think it rather extravagant, Charlotte?”

“Nevertheless, we have aunt’s legacy” urged the latter “This is our chance to get into print” When the other two still looked dubious, Charlotte said impatiently “Our plans for a school came to naught. I may have to look around for another situation – perhaps in Paris..” Anne exchanged mystified looks with Emily – why Paris? “We will all of us have to look about for situations as governesses” Here she pointedly included Emily in her dire predictions “if we do not come up with some means of supporting ourselves”

“So if we spend £31 10s on getting a book of verse printed up, this will count as a means of supporting ourselves?” queried Emily sarcastically. “And why is Branwell’s verse not to be included?”

“His poems have already been published in the local papers: besides, Branwell has no money of his own to contribute to the costs of printing so it is only fair that it should be us three who submit our work. Well, do you agree or not?” Having secured their agreement, Charlotte dealt with all the correspondence. In a state of emotional exhaustion, she went to stay with Ellen at Brookroyd in February.

“Poor thing” said Ellen sympathetically when she saw her friend “You do not look at all well, Charlotte. We must feed you up, and I prescribe lots of walks in the fresh air”

Ellen’s natural sympathy and concern had the effect of causing her to break down. “Why, whatever is the matter, Charlotte? I have not seen you like this before”

“It is nothing, I am being foolish..” Charlotte drew out a pocket handkerchief, and wiped her eyes “It’s just that I am always at loggerheads with my brother and sisters: when we were young we all got on so well together, but now everything has changed..”

“But that is quite natural, Charlotte” Ellen pointed out gently, drawing her arm through her friend’s. They wandered off slowly across the parkland, and Charlotte narrowly avoided tripping over a tree root “Children drift apart as they grow up” continued Ellen, steering her companion onto a gravelled path “George and I used to be quite close, but now he is almost a stranger to me: I do not know what goes on in that disordered mind of his…And Henry is, of course, much taken up with his new wife.”

“I know that, but even Emily and Anne seem to resent me, and I don’t know why. As the eldest I have tried to be a mother to them and to do what is best. Whenever I suggest something they unite in opposing me, as if I did not always consider what is in their best interests…”

“Perhaps it is because you have instructed them from a young age they forget you are their sister and not their governess…”suggested Ellen, little realising that this astute observation would cause further distress.

“Yes, that is it” wept Charlotte “They no longer want me for a companion: they mock me and laugh at me behind my back. Branwell has taught them to lose respect for me, for he respects no-one..”

“Surely not, Charlotte, it is but your imagination.” Ellen attempted to comfort her “Anne always speaks of you with the greatest affection, and Emily has always been wilful and reserved… she has not changed. As for your brother, do you remember how he used to bait me when I first visited the parsonage? I’m sure he means nothing by it. You have lost your aunt – the nearest thing to a mother - and now that awful business with Mrs. Robinson. You are overwrought, that is all”

“Forgive me, I know I am being ridiculous” Charlotte blew her nose “I will recover myself in a moment..”

“Come, dry your eyes. You shall stay here with me as long as you like: you needn’t return to the parsonage until you are feeling much better”

“Dear Nell, I don’t know what I should do without you. You are the truest and most loyal friend I have ever had”

As the day of Charlotte’s departure loomed closer Ellen wrote to Emily requesting the pleasure of her sister’s company for a few days longer.

“Why is she consulting me on the matter?” Emily wondered aloud at the breakfast table, as she opened Ellen’s letter. “Surely Charlotte is mistress of her own destiny and does not need my permission to extend her stay”

“Charlotte has put her up to it, depend on it” replied Branwell “That way it looks as if she is staying away, not of her own volition, but at her friend’s request”

“Maybe she is not well, and Ellen is concerned for her health” suggested Anne.

“Perhaps that is what we are supposed to think” muttered Branwell. “And why should she be unwell, pray? What has she suffered of late?” This question was treated as rhetorical and therefore received no answer, but Emily kicked him under the table as their father entered the room.

At Brookroyd Ellen showed Charlotte the letter she had received in reply from Emily:

Dear Miss Nussey,

I fancy this note will be too late to decide one way or other with respect to Charlotte’s stay. Yours only came this morning (Wednesday), and unless mine travels faster you will not receive it till Friday. Papa, of course, misses Charlotte, and will be glad to have her back. Anne and I ditto; but as she goes from home so seldom, you may keep her a day or two longer, if your eloquence is equal to the task of persuading her – that is, if she still be with you when you get this permission. Yours truly E. J. Bronte

“Only one paragraph! Could she not write more? She writes like a man. Nothing about her feelings, what she is thinking. Your letters are so effusive and affectionate, Charlotte…She still addresses me as Miss Nussey, not Ellen or Nell..” Ellen sighed.

“Emily’s thoughts and feelings are a closely guarded citadel” agreed Charlotte “She has a complete disregard for social niceties which makes her seem churlish”

“Though I think I could forgive Emily almost anything” confessed Ellen “There is something about her…”

* * * *

As Charlotte habitually signed off as C. Bronte Esquire in her correspondence with the publishers, the inevitable happened one afternoon whilst she was absent: a parcel of proofs to correct was delivered to a male member of the household by mistake, that person being Branwell. Charlotte swiftly wrote advising them to send any future correspondence c/o Miss Bronte.

Relations between Charlotte and her brother were strained upon her return to the parsonage, and she confided in Ellen: “I went into the room where Branwell was to speak to him about an hour after I got home – it was very forced work to address him – I might have spared myself the trouble as he took no notice and made no reply – he was stupefied…I wish I could say anything favourable, but how can we be more comfortable so long as Branwell stays at home, and degenerates instead of improving? It has been lately intimated to him, that he would be received again on the railroad where he was formerly stationed if he would behave more steadily, but he refuses to make an effort; he will not work; and at home he is a drain on every resource – an impediment to all happiness. But there is no use in complaining.”

At the beginning of April 1846 Branwell visited the offices of the Halifax Guardian and placed an advertisement for a position that would take him abroad.

One of the Sunday-school pupils in whom they all took an interest had fallen ill and they were afraid she wouldn’t live. Branwell sat with her, as he had sat with Weightman three years earlier. Seeing the little girl’s quiet resignation brought back painful memories of his beloved older sister Maria who had died when she was 12. He had been eight years old at the time, and had worshipped Maria who had been like a mother to him. Later on Branwell stopped in at the Black Bull, and retreated to a quiet corner, where he set down his impressions on paper in order to relieve his feelings.

“.. I very much wanted to pray with her, but I was not good enough. How could someone such as I have the audacity to pray for another, when I had almost forgotten how to pray for myself! I went home much depressed. I wanted somebody to cheer me. I often do, but no kind word finds its way even to my ears, much less to my heart. Charlotte observed my depression, and asked what ailed me. So I told her. She looked at me with a look I shall never forget – if I live to be a hundred years old – which I never shall. It was not like her at all. It wounded me as if some one had struck me a blow in the mouth. It involved ever so many things in it. It was a dubious look. It ran over me, questioning, and examining, as if I had been a wild beast. It said, ‘Did my ears deceive me, or did I hear aright?’ And then came the painful, baffled expression, which was worse than all. It said, ‘I wonder if that’s true?’ But, as she left the room, she seemed to accuse herself of having wronged me, and smiled kindly upon me, and said, ‘She is my little scholar, and I will go and see her.’ I replied not a word. I was too much cut up. When she was gone, I came over here to the ‘Black Bull,’ and made a note of it in sheer disgust and desperation. Why could they not give me some credit when I was trying to be good?”

Meanwhile Branwell confided in Leyland: “Literary exertion would seem a resource, but the depression attendant on it, and the almost hopelessness of bursting through the barriers of literary circles, and getting a hearing among publishers, make me disheartened and indifferent; for I cannot write what would be thrown, unread, into a library fire: otherwise I have the materials for a respectably sized volume…” In an effort to rouse him from his apathy, Leyland asked him - as a special favour - to compose an epic poem about the history of Morley Hall, once owned by Leyland’s ancestors: in exchange he promised to model Branwell’s likeness in a bronze medallion “just like the emperors of Rome”. He ended his letter with an invitation for Branwell to meet up with him and a couple of their mutual friends at the Cross Roads Inn, a hostelry a little more than a mile from Haworth on the road to Keighley.

“How do things stand with your father?” asked Leyland.

“His sight is failing, but he is as determined as ever to save me from the clutches of Old Nick. If anything were to happen to Papa, I would be utterly lost” admitted Branwell despairingly “He is my rock, the Captain of my ship…”

“But you must be captain of your own soul” urged Leyland earnestly, leaning forward.

“But in comparison with him I am such a feeble wretch” Branwell began to recite a litany of his father’s remarkable achievements: after being apprenticed to a blacksmith then a weaver, he had opened a school at the age of 16 which provided a living for 5 years. He had then gone on to St. John’s College, Cambridge, where he achieved an unbroken record of first-class awards, and enrolled as a volunteer in the militia under Palmerston when Britain was under imminent threat of invasion. By the aged of 29 he was a deacon in holy orders, and ordained as priest a year later. “I know that I mock the Old Cossack mercilessly but his bodily and moral strength is so superior to my own. All that I have inherited is an overly morbid imagination”

“But the imagination is one of the greatest of all God-given gifts” insisted George. “You have always argued as much yourself. You possess creative talents in abundance”

“I begin to think otherwise” countered Branwell wearily, who had read some of Emily’s poetry, and felt it to be superior to his own. “But it is not enough!” Some of his old vehemence returned as he banged the table with his fist “I know that I have had verses published in the local press, but if I am to support myself I need to be published by a reputable firm like…” After a moment’s hesitation, he told them of his sisters’ joint publishing venture.

“Then why don’t you do the same?” enquired Francis “Your work is of equal merit”

“I cannot afford the cost. They have a legacy left by my aunt, and I am already in debt”

“But could you not ask to have some of your own poems included in the selection?” Branwell shrugged.

“I was not asked. Evidently it is a great secret and I was not supposed to know anything”

“I thought Emily was sympathetic to you” said Leyland.

“I think she is, but she wishes to remain anonymous whereas for me it is the exact opposite: if I am unknown how can I sell books to a wider public? Besides, Charlotte is the driving force in all this” he remarked bitterly “Do not be fooled by her demure appearance: her professed modesty notwithstanding, she has always been ruthless and single minded in pursuing her ambition. The difference between us is that she now has the opportunity to capitalise on her ambition”

“I did not know she was like that” commented Leyland in some surprise. He had met Branwell’s older sister on two previous occasions, and she had been gracious and welcoming in her manner towards him.

“You have not lived under the same roof with her. When she was all for turning the parsonage into a school it did not occur to her once to solicit my opinion or to consult my feelings on the matter. In any case, the scheme came to naught. Imagine the reaction of any fond mother upon seeing the prospectus: ‘Ladies, send your daughters to be instructed at a remote parsonage on the Yorkshire moors far from any civilising influence. The accommodation provided is basic, with pupils being crammed into rooms the size of broom cupboards, and the views are simply magnificent, with graveyards on all three sides…’ Is it any wonder there were no takers?” The others grinned at Branwell’s mocking parody of his sisters’ advertising efforts.

“So tell us something of this paragon who has so captured your heart” said Leyland finally. The other two had been skirting around the subject, not wishing to distress Branwell further, but Leyland suspected it would do him good to give vent to his pent-up feelings. “She is no longer young, and must be what, nearly 46?” Francis and George were amazed that Branwell, who was 29, could be attracted to a woman of such mature years and had discussed the matter privately between themselves.

“Lydia is incomparable” declared Branwell, emptying the contents of his tumbler, which Francis immediately re-filled with whiskey.

“Come, that tells us nothing” prompted George, hopeful of learning something to his advantage.

“I have received so many small instances and proofs of her affection that I can no longer doubt her true sentiments” continued Branwell “We share the same interests and think alike, but she is trapped in a loveless marriage with a chronic invalid who is incapable of appreciating her many good qualities.” He went on to tell them of Lydia’s promise to marry him in the eventuality that her husband should die. When they had met at Harrogate the possibility of elopement had been discussed, but just as soon dismissed as being impracticable.

“Well then, all is not lost” said Francis “Her husband cannot go on indefinitely if he is, as you say, an invalid. I do not wish to sound heartless, but surely it is just a question of time. Once he has departed this earth, you and Mrs. Robinson can be wed and you shall be the master of Thorp Green” Branwell’s spirits seemed to recover somewhat at this prospect, and Leyland proposed a toast.

“To the future. Let us drink and be merry”

Chapter Seven – 1846 - 1847

Emily and Branwell were sitting together in the kitchen, the latter offering critical advice on the novel Emily had begun. She had just showed him Heathcliff’s remarks to Nellie Dean on his first glimpse of the two Linton children at Thrushcross Grange:

‘I’d not exchange, for a thousand lives, my condition here, for Edgar Linton’s at Thrushcross Grange – not if I might have the privilege of flinging Joseph off the highest gable, and painting the house-front with Hindley’s blood!’

“Oh, capital!” cried Branwell, slapping his knees and roaring with laughter. Encouraged by her brother’s positive reaction, Emily read aloud a later scene where the servant Nellie had stowed Hindley’s infant son Hareton in a cupboard, in order to hide him from his father’s drunken wrath.

‘There, I’ve found it out at last!’ cried Hindley, pulling me back by the skin of my neck, like a dog. ‘By heaven and hell, you’ve sworn between you to murder that child! I know how it is, now, that he is always out of my way. But, with the help of Satan, I shall make you swallow the carving-knife, Nelly! You needn’t laugh; for I’ve just crammed Kenneth, head-downmost, in the Black-horse marsh; and two is the same as one – and I want to kill some of you: I shall have no rest till I do!’

‘But I don’t like the carving-knife, Mr. Hindley,’ I answered; ‘it has been cutting red herrings. I’d rather be shot, if you please.’

‘You’d rather be damned!’ he said; ‘and so you shall. No law in England can hinder a man from keeping his house decent, and mine’s abominable! Open your mouth.’ He held the knife in his hand, and pushed its point between my teeth: but, for my part, I was never much afraid of his vagaries. I spat out, and affirmed it tasted detestably – I would not take it on any account.’

“What if we make Hindley threaten to cut off his son’s ears?” suggested Branwell mischievously.

“Whisht, wi’ yer foolish palaver and wicked heathenish notions” shuddered Martha, looking askance at the pair. “What sort of language is that? It would sorely grieve th’ Maister to hear sich words spoken under his very own roof!” Tabby sat in a rocking chair in the chimney-corner, with a basin of cold potatoes in her lap and a slop bucket at her feet into which were dropped the parings - the very picture of placid impassivity, and not in the least shocked. After all, when they were children, it was she who had sought to divert them with ghoulish accounts of witches, restless spirits and other such superstitious tales calculated to impress susceptible young minds. Branwell reached for a blackcurrant tart from a tray which had been set out to cool, and received a smack from Tabby.

“Now doan think because I’m an old woman, I cannot see what you’re up to nor that you’re too big for a clout. There, only let me catch you pinching one more tart and thou shalt feel my own pinch, and see how thee likes it!” Branwell dodged out of the way, laughing. Although he was now a fully grown young man, she still continued to treat him as though he were a naughty boy, and he never lost an opportunity to tease her. Tabby’s good-natured and down-to-earth chaffing was more welcome than Charlotte’s silent disapprobation, and he delighted in provoking her.

“You and Martha are both in my book” declared Emily to Tabby “I have rolled you up into one character and christened her Nellie Dean. How do you like that?”

“I’m not sure I should like it at all” murmured the eighteen-year-old Martha, who was occupied with turning oatcakes on the gridiron. “I hope I have been portrayed as an honest god-fearing soul wi’ no queer goings on and no truck wi’ th’ divil”

“Yon’s a girt idle nobbut. Or how about Ye’ good fer nowt slattern” suggested Branwell as they experimented with phrases to illustrate Joseph’s curmudgeonly character, and his resentment of Heathcliff’s young wife. Emily read aloud what she had written: ‘Following a stream of objurgations and oaths directed at that young lady who sat reclining by the hearth-stone, Joseph administered a vicious kick to the cur, who cringed and set up a piteous yelping. ‘Quieten that girning hound from hell!’

“Not you, Keeper” she added, bestowing a kiss on the latter’s head “That was an imaginary dog – I would never ill-use you so” Keeper now turned upon his mistress a gaze of such slavish devotion that they all burst out laughing. “I know you are pining for a walk” continued Emily, putting aside her writing “You shall soon be sniffing up every scent and chasing every leveret or bird that crosses your path” Keeper showed his gratitude by licking her, his tail wagging frantically.

* * * *

All three sisters were sitting by the fire in the dining room, recovering from a bout of influenza. Emily was working on her novel – her pen scratching furiously - whilst Charlotte wrote to Ellen and Anne recorded in her journal: “About a week ago Charlotte let Branwell read her draft of The Professor. He put it down half way through, declaring ‘It is like wading through cold porridge. The prose is turgid and phlegmatic, just like its author’ Whether he meant this remark to be overheard by Charlotte I do not know, but she was cut to the quick by his pronouncement. ‘How dare he be so dismissive?…”

Charlotte took out a camphor-impregnated pocket handkerchief, and blew her nose. Her eyes were streaming. “I wish this accursed cold would leave me, but there seems to be no remedy..” She sighed, then continued her letter: “Papa is also suffering from influenza, and is very despondent due to Branwell’s conduct which has passed the bounds of all moderation. The other night he managed to wheedle a sovereign out of Papa on pretext of discharging some pressing debt. I leave you to imagine where it was spent, and in what state he returned to the parsonage...” She looked up at her brother’s entry, as he paused on the threshold.

“This is strange” said Branwell “Me thinks my favour here begins to warp. Not speak? Even now I met her with customary compliment when she, wafting her eyes to the contrary, and falling a lip of much contempt….” This drew forth a fleeting smile from Emily, who recognised the quote from A Winter’s Tale, but Charlotte continued to regard her brother coldly. “What ails you?” he asked finally.

“First, your conduct towards Papa, which is inexcusable. He is nearly seventy, and to treat him so is utterly vile. In the second instance, it is now become impossible for us to even contemplate setting up a school here at the parsonage, for what parent in their right minds would permit their daughters to reside under the same roof as…”

“-As what? What foul deed do you think I’m capable of? I’m sorry to have blighted your hopes, but in case it has not escaped your notice Papa and I live here too. You cannot have everything your own way, Charlotte” Branwell left the room soon afterwards, and Charlotte turned to Emily in appeal.

“Do you see what I mean? He will be the ruin of all of us. All our schemes for the future, our dreams have come to naught”

“You cannot keep blaming Branwell for that. The situation is too windy and remote for a school. Branwell has also been sorely disappointed - none of his schemes have come to fruition”

“But it is through his own doing! His defects of character..” Charlotte broke off to blow her nose again, and Emily gave her an agonised look.

“He is our brother, Charlotte. Do not keep belittling him in front of me.” She whistled to Keeper, who bounded up joyfully at the prospect of a ramble across the moors. Anne gazed out the window at Emily’s retreating back, then turned beseeching eyes to Charlotte.

“Why cannot you and Branwell be reconciled? She is torn between you, for she loves you both equally” Anne looked wistful. “Don’t you sometimes wish Mama had lived, and that we could go to her with our troubles?” As Charlotte looked at her younger sister’s sweet earnest face, her expression softened.

“Many a time” She sighed. “If she had only lived, perhaps Branwell would not have become involved with that diabolical creature, and things would have turned out differently. You should not be compelled to witness such scenes. Come, let us compare notes. Where have you got to with Agnes Grey?” They interlaced arms and circled the dining table, as they discussed the plots and characters of their works in progress. Charlotte had begun a novel entitled The Professor, which drew heavily on her experiences at the Pensionnat in Brussels, whilst Anne had commenced a novel of her own about a governess called Agnes Grey.

Later that evening Emily slipped back into the house with the dogs. She found Branwell sitting alone at the kitchen table with his head in his hands; at the snick of the door-latch he raised his head.

“Do not look so woebegone” chided Emily, as she hung her damp cloak up to dry and shook out her tangled hair. “Are there any roast potatoes? I am famished” Branwell pointed to a row of hot potatoes which Tabby had left roasting on top of the range, and Emily helped herself to one.

“I am in Purgatory. When I look in the glass I see reflected a risus sardonicus, much as a man may laugh before he is to be hanged.”

“Don’t look then” said Emily promptly, causing Branwell to laugh. She was conscious that her brother and sister had become estranged of late, and it troubled her.

“So, have I truly wrecked all your dreams, as Charlotte accuses me?”

“I don’t mind about the school so much as she does” said Emily, slitting a potato in half with a knife “And it is not fair to lay the blame on you. But I think she is more concerned for Papa than for herself – that is why she is so angry” Branwell was silent for a moment.

“I am going to Hell in a handcart with my eyes open. That is plain for all to see. But she is such a hypocrite!” he burst out a moment later “She has succumbed to the same monomania she accuses me of. Why else did she insist on returning to Brussels at such needless expense, when she had attained all the requisite qualifications for teaching? No sooner had she got home than she rushed off again. I heard Martha say to Tabby that she still conducts a clandestine correspondence with her French professor – I doubt Mme Heger is pleased! Confess it is the truth, Emily, for she must confide in you” Emily shook her head.

“Not Charlotte. I did not care for Monsieur Heger. I found him a detestable little man - and it is true she had formed an attachment to him – but she would never have spoken or acted indiscreetly. I guessed as much, but I never questioned her and she would never admit to anything of the sort. It is foreign to her nature.”

“So that is the nub! Charlotte is never indiscreet, whereas I have been reckless and incautious. She is consequently as virtuous as a snow-white lamb, whereas I am painted as black as the devil. Tell me, why should I be censured for my entanglement with Mrs. Robinson, who reciprocates my feelings in equal measure - when Charlotte, who is guilty of the same transgression, that of conceiving a hopeless passion for a married man – is blameless?” Emily gave him one of her enigmatic looks.

“The semblance of piety is all”

“If this is the kind of judgement God metes out” concluded Branwell bitterly “then I am truly unfit for Heaven. If I die before her” he added, half in jest “I shall come back to haunt her as a punishment. I will exact my revenge from the grave. Much like Cathy haunts Heathcliff in your tale - have you written any more of Wuthering Heights lately?”

“Two more chapters, but my best inspiration comes when I am walking up by the crags on Stanbury Moor. The door in the rock beneath Ponden Kirk has been turned into the fairy cave beneath Penistone crags where Cathy and Heathcliff go to play, safe from Hindley’s brutality. Would you like to read what I have written so far?”

“Yes, but I warn you, I shall not be able to resist annotating your script: I shall make Hindley even more of a monster than he already is”

“I will fetch the manuscript to you here” said Emily. She disappeared upstairs, returning a moment later with a sheaf of papers. Branwell adjusted the wick in the lamp so the flame burned brighter. “This is Heathcliff on hearing that Edgar’s sister Isabella Linton has become infatuated with him: ‘You’d hear of odd things if I lived alone with that mawkish, waxen face: the most ordinary would be painting on its white the colours of the rainbow, and turning the blue eyes black, every day or two: they detestably resemble Linton’s’

“He is such a brute to poor Isabella, who has done him no harm” was Branwell’s amused comment.

“And I have written this scene where Heathcliff contrives a meeting at Thrushcross Grange with Cathy: ‘I seek no revenge on you,’ replied Heathcliff, less vehemently. ‘That’s not the plan. The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don’t turn against him; they crush those beneath them. You are welcome to torture me to death for your amusement, only allow me to amuse myself a little in the same style, and refrain from insult as much as you are able. Having levelled my palace, don’t erect a hovel and complacently admire your own charity in giving me that for a home. If I imagined you really wished me to marry Isabel, I’d cut my throat!’ That’s as far as I’ve got with it.”

Branwell read over the last paragraph she had written, and nodded “That is very fine. At this point you could have Cathy’s husband come in and discover the pair. He threatens to eject Heathcliff from the Grange, but has his servants do the deed, as he is too cowardly to take on Heathcliff himself. And Cathy will show her open contempt of Edgar”

“I hope you do not see yourself in the role of Heathcliff and Lydia Robinson as Cathy” teased Emily. “We have already used the same initials for Thrushcross Grange as Thorp Green” Branwell grimaced; the subject was still too painful to dwell on. He picked up a pen and a few moments later showed her what he had written.

‘Cathy, this lamb of yours threatens like a bull!’ he said. ‘It is in danger of splitting its skull against my knuckles. By God! Mr. Linton, I’m mortally sorry that you are not worth knocking down!…I wish you joy of the milk-blooded coward, Cathy!’ said her friend. ‘I compliment you on your taste. And that is the slavering, shivering thing you preferred to me! I would not strike him with my fist, but I’d kick him with my foot, and experience considerable satisfaction. Is he weeping, or is he going to faint for fear?’ They both laughed helplessly.

Upstairs in their bedroom, Charlotte wrote in her diary:

“I have just read ‘Confessions of an English Opium Eater’, that vade mecum of aspiring poets, and I am not impressed. The visions and hallucinations contained therein are admirable as poetry, but not intended to be taken literally any more than the ravings of Hamlet or Othello. Fired by his boyish enthusiasm for Coleridge and De Quincey, Branwell has devoured every word that has issued from their delirious brains. The former’s addiction to laudanum and latter’s addiction to opium has had an injurious effect on my brother, who seeks to follow in their footsteps and has been persuaded to think there is some grandeur in a life of vice and dissipation. But the end is always sordid and degrading. He complains to my ailing father of being confined to this house which is “little better than a nunnery” but it is surely better than being confined to the county gaol, penned up with debtors and felons, which is where he most assuredly would be now, if Papa did not discharge his debts for him”

From downstairs the sounds of laughter floated up the staircase. Their father had retired at nine o’clock, as was his custom, followed shortly afterwards by Tabby.

“Emily must have returned” remarked Anne “I suppose she and Branwell are in the kitchen together” Charlotte pondered the indissoluble bond that existed between Branwell and Emily. She felt aggrieved that Emily no longer confided in her and that her sister was never the butt of Branwell’s sarcastic humour. “I sometimes fancy we are all of us actors in one of Shakespeare’s plays” went on Anne “Branwell is Hamlet the Melancholy Prince, Father is King Lear and we his three daughters”

“Only we do not act a part. I confess that I never know when Branwell is in earnest or jest. Is he play-acting, or is he really suffering do you think?”

“Oh, his suffering is real enough” asserted Anne, who had witnessed Branwell’s wildly fluctuating moods when they were both employed at Thorp Green “One minute he was as merry as a lark, the next he was moping and taciturn – I could not get a word out of him – though I do not know how much Mrs. Robinson is to blame, and how much is a product of Branwell’s feverish imagination”

“I will just complete this last entry and then go see whether Emily means to retire soon” said Charlotte, who had almost run out of ink: “I have no doubt that Branwell is the cause of dissension and disharmony in this household; there were never harsh words between Emily and myself before, and I fear he has a corrupting influence on her…” Charlotte paused to reflect upon the conundrum that was Emily. Normally so scornful of weak characters who lacked self-discipline and moral fibre, she refused to condemn her brother “He is not to blame” she had insisted earlier “He does not deserve your cold silent contempt” Standing upright against the parlour mantelpiece, she had defended him to Charlotte. “Too many women who live a life of ease and narrow confinement congratulate themselves on their virtuous conduct when they are merely following the dictates of convention. If women could enter public houses with the same freedom as men and were granted the same opportunities, I dare say many of them would succumb to the same temptations as Branwell. For someone who risks all for the sake of experience there is much to lose, but those who risk little should not sit in judgement”. “Her words seared me like a hot brand” she now noted in her diary. “It pains me to dwell on my errant brother, so I will in future hold my tongue and refrain from censure in front of her”

Charlotte put down her pen and descended to the lower regions, negotiating the cold stone-flagged passage which led to the back of the house in her slippers. She peeped into the kitchen, where Branwell and Emily sat together with their feet up on the fender, laughing as they improvised scenes and dialogue. They were so absorbed in the fantastic world they had created they scarcely noticed her. Keeper lay stretched out on the hearthstone with his paws in front of him, and cocked an ear at her entrance. He barked once, and Emily turned her head.

“Hello, Charlotte” Charlotte smiled back uncertainly, unsure whether her intrusion was welcome. Branwell offered her a hot roasted potato on a toasting fork.

“We did some for you and Anne, if you’re hungry” said Branwell in a spirit of conciliation. He then spoiled it by adding “Nuns must eat too”

“What were you both discussing just now?” asked Charlotte lightly, as she wrapped the potatoes in a cloth to take upstairs.

“Branwell was making practical suggestions about my novel” replied Emily “It will be so scandalous by the time it is finished that I will be shunned by all civilised society”

“Nevermore will The Holies descend upon Father’s table like a plague of locusts, consuming everything within their grasp” subjoined Branwell “Papa will not be able to raise his head in the village, and you and Anne will be obliged to enter a convent post-haste”

“If it is that scandalous then no reputable publisher will touch it” observed Charlotte, withdrawing. “Don’t stay up too long, Emily”

Branwell lay tossing on his couch, and sought relief from his insomnia by taking a tincture of opium. He awoke three hours later to the sounds of a rattling window where he had left the lattice open. Outside the moon shone brightly, and the boughs of the fir-tree tossed fitfully in the wind which had picked up in the night. Mindful that her brother was often wakeful at night, Emily had left her manuscript with him; he now picked it up and began to read. At the first glimmer of dawn, exhaustion eventually overtook him and he collapsed back onto his bed.

The following day, he commenced a letter to Leyland:

“De Quincey asserts that opium saved him from the consumption to which his father succumbed, and which I have reason to believe is deep-seated within this family; as it also helps ward off visitations from that ghastly concubine the night-mare, producing sweet oblivion, you will understand why I – a stranger to repose - keep a vial of the palliative within easy reach….Last night I began to read Emily’s novel, and cannot describe the strange effect it had on me. Carried away by an inexplicable impulse, I picked up my pen and wrote 4 chapters. Heathcliff, Hindley and Cathy were clamouring inside my head to be heard and would not be denied, and I continued where Emily had left off, writing long into the night. A strange affinity seems to exist between our two minds. It is as though Emily is writing my own book: at one point it was as if our two souls were conjoined and we had become one author with one heart and one fevered brain… This morning I showed her what I had written, and she was greatly astonished.. I do not know whether she has included or discarded my chapters. No other novel has had such an effect on me – There is a queer passage in the book where Cathy tells the servant she dreamt she was taken up to Heaven, but was so miserable and heartbroken to be parted from the earth, that the angels cast her down from Heaven in wrath at her ingratitude, and flung her into the middle of the heath above Wuthering Heights, where she awoke sobbing for joy. I was much struck, as it perfectly accorded with my own sentiments…”

In May 1846 the poems of Acton, Ellis and Currer Bell were published at their own expense, and the first three copies were received at the parsonage. Charlotte requested their publisher to send advertisements to ten leading periodicals and newspapers including Blackwood’s Magazine.

“But if Branwell sees that it will kill him” objected Emily “He has always wanted to have his work published in Blackwoods”

“He will not know” Charlotte assured them “We are only known by our nom de plumes” Emily and Anne still looked doubtful: their brother wasn’t stupid and although he might not recognise Emily or Anne’s more recent work, Charlotte’s earlier poems – dating from the Angrian Chronicles – would be easily recognisable to him.

The other momentous event to occur that month was that Mr. Robinson died at the end of May, only six months after Branwell’s dismissal. But if Branwell had entertained hopes of at last marrying his inamorata, he was to be sorely disappointed. Charlotte related what happened next in a letter to Ellen:

“It seems that Mr. Robinson altered his will, forbidding his widow to marry under penalties of forfeiting the estate, stipulating that she should not have a shilling if she ever ventured to re-open any communication with him. My brother recently received a message from this woman – delivered by her coachman, directed to find him at the Black Bull – which contained an entreaty for him to keep away and not to tempt her to ruin. According to the sexton John Brown, all the blood rushed from his face and he fell down in a fainting fit: his whole body shook with tremors and he had to be carried home, where he is now in attendance by the doctor. The shock and disappointment were too great for his endurance. It appears the woman has no shame. It is evident she has no intention of relinquishing her comfortable lifestyle, or incurring the condemnation of society by marrying my brother, whatever she might once have promised him. You can imagine how I view this designing creature, who has brought my brother so low. Anne and Emily are of the same opinion”

For a time, Branwell’s pitiable state reawakened Charlotte’s compassion, and she now portrayed him as a victim, a martyr to love, and the sisters joined in condemning Mrs. Robinson, who – according to her own daughters – was now pursuing the wealthy husband of a dying woman. Branwell had roused himself sufficiently from his lethargy to write to Francis Grundy: “…The gentleman with whom I have been is dead. His property is left in trust for the family, provided I do not see the widow; and if I do, it reverts to the executing trustees, with ruin to her. She is now distracted with sorrows and agonies; and the statement of her case, as given by her coachman, who has come to see me at Haworth, fills me with inexpressible grief. Her mind is distracted to the verge of insanity, and mine is so wearied that I wish I were in my grave…” ending with a heartfelt request for Grundy’s help in procuring employment on the railways. The latter responded promptly, expressing deep regret that he did not have enough influence to oblige his friend.

Branwell wrote to Leyland in a similar vein, summarising his situation: “…I have been, in truth, too much petted through life, and, in my last situation, I was so much master, and gave myself so much up to enjoyment, that now, when the cloud of ill-health and adversity has come upon me, it will be a disheartening job to work myself up again, through a new life’s battle, from the position of five years ago... I shall never be able to realize the too sanguine hopes of my friends, for at twenty-nine I am a thoroughly old man, mentally and bodily… I know only that it is time for me to be something, when I am nothing, that my father cannot have long to live, and that, when he dies, my evening, which is already twilight, will become night; that I shall then have a constitution still so strong that it will keep me years in torture and despair, when I should every hour pray that I might die …” He signed off with a pen-and-ink sketch of himself bound to the stake, his wrists chained together, and surrounded by flames and smoke.

Charlotte’s sympathy for her brother was short-lived, as she was soon writing to Ellen again in June: “Of course he then became intolerable. To papa he allows rest neither day nor night, and he is continually screwing money out of him, sometimes threatening that he will kill himself if it is withheld from him…Good situations have been offered him more than once, for which, by a fortnight’s work, he might have qualified himself, but he will do nothing, except drink and make us all wretched… it is a sore trial for my ailing father, whose sight diminishes daily...” Patrick was indeed sorely tried by his son’s conduct, and attempted to reason with him, appealing to his sense of dignity.

“Branwell, setbacks and disappointments in love are experienced by many young persons, who learn valuable lessons, becoming older and wiser. You must stop all this senseless moping. It is unseemly, and unworthy of you”

“It is not for myself that I grieve, Papa, it is for her! She is so miserable it is beyond imagining. And I am not even permitted to console her in her hour of need”

“I think the lady is less in need of consolation than you may think” remarked Patrick, who strongly suspected that Mrs. Robinson had deliberately represented herself as some kind of tragic Byronic heroine, the victim of thwarted passions - a portrayal best calculated to appeal to his son’s romantic susceptibilities - and that the entreaty to stay away lest he bring about her “ruin” was merely a device to keep him at a distance. He had little doubt the lady in question had her own self-interests at heart, was nowhere near “insane” with grief, and that Branwell was being duped. Despite his pretensions to worldliness, he was still very trusting and naïve.

“You do not know her as I do! You do not know what she had been made to suffer at the hands of that….”

“I do know that she is capable of portraying herself in the best possible light so as to avoid censure, and that most ladies in her exalted position would not stoop to unburdening their intimate sufferings – real or imaginary – to a household tutor, seventeen years her junior! It argues a want of proper judgement and restraint-”

“Do not keep harping on the difference in age! Where there is a true meeting of minds there is no barrier” If there had indeed been a true “meeting of minds”, Patrick thought, Mrs. Robinson would have found a way of marrying his son, but it was useless to labour the point with Branwell, who was totally besotted. He was left wondering why this should be. Was it possible that his son – having been deprived of a mother’s love and care from an early age - had sought solace from an older woman who was able to provide a simulacrum of maternal affection? Patrick now recollected how lonely and lost Branwell had seemed in his new position when he visited him at York. A few kind words, and flattering attentions bestowed indiscriminately from one who was herself lonely and discontented, may well have been enough to secure Branwell’s devotion.

In July, reviews of the sisters’ poems began to appear. A favourable reviewer in The Critic wrote: “Here we have good, wholesome, refreshing, vigorous poetry – no sickly affectations, no namby-pamby, no tedious imitations of familiar strains, but original thoughts, expressed in the true language of poetry…” Encouraged, Charlotte sent a letter with complimentary copies of the book to Wordsworth, Tennyson, Hartley Coleridge, and De Quincey.

“Doubtless with the ulterior motive of getting these worthy gentlemen to promote the book” observed Branwell cynically to Leyland. “If it were merely a question of distributing unsold copies she could have offered them to more obscure and deserving recipients” He could not blame her as he would have done exactly the same in her position, but he couldn’t help remembering that he had been the first to write to them years ago, and had originally put the thought into her head. That evening he approached Emily in private. “Mr. Ellis Bell, I presume?”

“How may I be of service, sir?” responded Emily, with a sweeping bow.

“I am desirous of reading for myself those verses which have attracted the notice of certain distinguished critics. I wondered whether you might do me the honour of loaning me a copy, that I might learn something of your craft and drink deep from the fount of wisdom…”

“Indeed, you flatter me, sir…” began Emily, then dropped her voice as she heard Charlotte and Anne come through the front door, having just returned from an expedition to the village. “Here, take it” She thrust her copy at Branwell, who pocketed the book. “How did you know? Charlotte wanted to spare your feelings whilst you have been so downcast, so we decided to keep it secret for the time being”

“George Searle Phillips subscribes to all the leading literary periodicals and showed it to me” replied Branwell. “Don’t tell her that I know: I want to see what new campaign of attrition she has planned for me”

“Do not declare war on Charlotte, Branwell” advised Emily, regarding him gravely. “She is not your enemy”

Alone in his room, Branwell opened the book of verse, alighting on a poem by Emily:

The evening passes fast away.

Tis almost time to rest;

What thoughts has left the vanished day,

What feelings in thy breast?

The vanished day? It leaves a sense

Of labour hardly done;

Of little gained with vast expense –

A sense of grief alone?

Time stands before the door of Death,

Upbraiding bitterly

And Conscience, with exhaustless breath,

Pours black reproach on me:

Dear God, muttered Branwell to himself, stopping after the first three stanzas. Let it not be me she is writing about. The mournful nature of some of Emily’s verse depressed him, though he had to acknowledge it was very good. Other poems were more abstract in nature and less personal, though she had always admired the metaphysical poets such as Donne and Blake. He read another untitled fragment:

Often rebuked, yet always back returning

To those first feelings that were born with me,

And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning

For idle dreams of things which cannot be:

To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;

Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;

And visions rising, legion after legion,

Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces,

And not in paths of high morality,

And not among the half-distinguished faces,

The clouded forms of long-past history.

I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading:

It vexes me to choose another guide:

Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;

Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?

More glory and more grief than I can tell:

The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling

Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.

For a brief moment he felt a stab of envy. Where had she learnt such economy of expression, to condense and crystallise her thoughts into such dazzling constellations? Each verse constituted a perfect arrangement of vowels, consonants, and syllables – and all without losing any of its central import, the hard kernel of meaning. By contrast, his own language seemed overblown and unoriginal, striving too hard for effect. Branwell’s better feelings struggled through, as with growing admiration he recognised a superior talent. Emily was a true poet, he thought, whereas I am a mere poetaster, a court jester. He sat in silence for several moments, meditating on the divergent paths he and his sisters had taken. Whilst they had been sent away to school, subject to a strict routine and to the structured discipline of the class-room, he had been tutored at home by his father and very much left to his own devices. After his sisters had left school they had continued with their studies, sharpening and honing their skills as writers whereas he had been at liberty to follow his own inclinations.

“The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us”

And so, back to Shakespeare, the inimitable Bard.

There is a tide in the affairs of men

Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

These gloomy reflections afforded him little respite from the accusing voices inside his head, and he thumbed through the pages, looking for something a little lighter to lift his spirits. His attention was caught by another more recent poem entitled The Two Children:

Heavy hangs the rain-drop

From the burdened spray;

Heavy broods the damp mist

On uplands far away.

Heavy looms the dull sky,

Heavy rolls the sea;

And heavy throbs the young heart

Beneath that lonely tree.

Never has a blue streak

Cleft the clouds since morn;

Never has his grim fate

Smiled since he was born.

Frowning on the infant,

Shadowing childhood’s joy

Guardian-angel knows not

That melancholy boy.

Day is passing swiftly

Its sad and sombre prime;

Boyhood sad is merging

In sadder manhood’s time:

All the flowers are praying

For sun, before they close,

And he prays too – unconscious –

That sunless human rose.

Blossom – that the west-wind

Has never wooed to blow,

Scentless are thy petals,

Thy dew is cold as snow!

Soul – where kindred kindness,

No early promise woke,

Barren is thy beauty,

As weed upon a rock.

Wither – soul and blossom!

You both were vainly given;

Earth reserves no blessing

For the unblest of heaven!

Child of delight, with sun-bright hair,

And sea-blue, sea-deep eyes!

Spirit of bliss! What brings thee here

Beneath these sullen skies?

Thou shouldst live in eternal spring,

Where endless day is never dim;

Why, Seraph, has thine erring wing

Wafted thee down to weep with him?

Ah! not from heaven am I descended,

Nor do I come to mingle tears;

But sweet is day, though with shadows blended;

And, though clouded, sweet are youthful years.

I – the image of light and gladness –

Saw and pitied that mournful boy,

And I vowed – if need were – to share his sadness,

And give to him my sunny joy.

Heavy and dark the night is closing;

Heavy and dark may its biding be:

Better for all from grief reposing,

And better for all who watch like me –

Watch in love by a fevered pillow,

Cooling the fever with pity’s balm

Safe as the petrel on tossing billow,

Safe in mine own soul’s golden calm!

Guardian-angel he lacks no longer;

Evil fortune he need not fear:

Fate is strong, but love is stronger;

And MY love is truer than angel-care.

It cannot be ME, he told himself, as he read the lines “Heavy and dark the night is closing” for I am very much alive, I am not dead yet. Seized by an irresistible and familiar impulse, Branwell flung the book aside and rushed headlong down the stairs and out the front door.

“Hey up, young Patrick” John Brown hailed him “Where are you off to, in such a hurry?”

“The Black Bull, The King’s Arms, anywhere where I can have a strong drink and banish those avenging Furies. For I am ALIVE” shouted Branwell “I am not dead – are you at liberty to keep a sinner company on his merry road to Perdition?”

“For certain” replied the latter, who had just emerged from his yard behind the sexton’s cottage and was covered in white dust “Chiselling stone all day gives a man a terrible thirst. Of course you’re not dead, ye daft bugger. Just wait a minute will ye, whilst I tell the missus to put my dinner by for later…”

* * * *

In the end only two copies of their book of verse sold, and Charlotte was brought to the realisation that poetry did not sell as well as novels - something her brother had remarked upon when he had earlier announced his intention to write a 3-volume novel. To this end she resolved that all three sisters should present their separate tales in a 3-volume novel. In July she offered up The Professor to a well-known publisher, but it was declined on the grounds that it did not hold sufficient interest for the reading public. The manuscripts of Wuthering Heights, Agnes Grey, and The Professor were parcelled up and posted off to various publishers. As the months went by the rejections piled up.

“We expect to be paid for our labour” exclaimed Charlotte indignantly, when one publisher suggested that, as they were virtual unknowns, he would consider publication if they met the expense themselves.

“Branwell says it is impossible to get published without connections” commented Emily “The only reason our book of poems was accepted is because we paid for it out of our own pockets”

“What does he know?” retorted Charlotte. “I will try another publisher, though it is a most vexatious proceeding - it takes them such an age to reply. Have we any more string, Anne? This is frayed through. I begin to think our parcels are being opened at the post office in the village...”

“They are probably curious to know why we receive so many parcels” murmured Anne, who was attempting to tie up a package with string which was much too short.

“They should mind their own business!” said Emily vehemently. “Why do you think I go out of my way to avoid the shop-keepers and their flapping tongues? Anne, you are making a pig’s ear of that – I will send Martha to the Stationer’s to fetch some more foolscap and a ball of stout twine”

Patrick’s cataract prevented him from reading but he continued to preach sightless from the pulpit. His children read aloud passages from his favourite novels and extracts from the newspapers, to keep him amused.

“Charlotte, did you not consult an eye surgeon on your last visit with Ellen?” said Branwell finally, moved by his father’s plight. “What did he advise?” One of Ellen’s cousins had married a surgeon and Charlotte had taken the opportunity to consult him about her father’s ailing sight.

“He said the cataract should be couched, but it first needs to harden. He explained it all to me, but medical men employ such obscure terminology it was sometimes to difficult to follow his meaning” After making further enquiries, Emily and Charlotte set off for Manchester to consult with an oculist called Mr. Wilson. The latter said he would need to examine the patient to ascertain whether an operation to restore his sight would be successful, and Charlotte accompanied her father on a second trip to Manchester in August. As Patrick’s cataract was deemed to be sufficiently hardened suitable lodgings were procured, as they would need to stay nearly a month whilst her father recovered in a darkened room. Patrick bore the operation with remarkable stoicism, and without flinching. “He is majestic in adversity, like the Vicar of Wakefield” wrote Charlotte in her letters home. “The operation lasted a quarter of an hour and involved extracting his left lens”

Whilst in Manchester she had begun work on a new novel called Jane Eyre. The inspiration for Rochester’s mad wife came from a house in the neighbouring parish of Oakworth where it was rumoured the owner kept his wife incarcerated in an attic room. With little else to do but read to her father, shop for sundry necessaries, and give instructions to the nurse in attendance, she was able to immerse herself completely in her writing. If the reading public demanded lurid melodrama and sensational plots, then she would give it to them. She would write of her own appalling experiences at the school for clergymen’s daughters at Cowan Bridge, where she and her young sisters had been sent all those years ago. She would write what it was like to be a governess in a strange household, she would depict madness in all its ghastly manifestations, and then see whether it would hold “sufficient interest” to keep readers hooked. She would eschew the haughty aristocratic beauties of conventional fiction; instead her heroine would be plain and nondescript with a modest and unassuming manner, but strong-willed, and endowed with a forceful intellect and powerful passions – a friendless orphan who eventually triumphs over adversity and goes on to capture the heart of the enigmatic Master of Thornfield Hall. Charlotte began to sketch out Rochester’s character, shifting on her window-seat to ease the crick in her neck.

“You should go out more into the fresh air, my dear” urged her father, interrupting her train of thought “It must be gloomy for you, sitting in a darkened room for hours on end…”

“Oh no, Papa, do not trouble yourself about me” Charlotte assured him “I have much correspondence to attend to, which keeps me occupied, and I have enough light here by the window”

“But it would do you good, and the nurse is only in the next room should I require anything. What news from your friend Ellen? You must ask her to come and stay again once we are back in Haworth”

“She writes that her brother George has recently been confined to a private asylum near York” replied Charlotte automatically, without thinking. “They are at their wits end as to what they should do with him”

“Oh no, surely not” Her father looked genuinely stricken. He had never met Ellen’s unfortunate brother, but this news must have been the last thing he wanted to hear in light of their recent troubles with Branwell.

“It is not that type of asylum” said Charlotte hastily, immediately regretting her tactless words “It is a well-run establishment where the patients are given the best care. They hope to have him home again soon. Perhaps I will go out after all” She rose from her seat. “We will treat ourselves to some fresh rolls from the bakers - I shan’t be long”

When Patrick’s bandages were removed, the operation was pronounced to be a success, and by the end of September they were both home again. Branwell increasingly absented himself from the parsonage, spending considerable time in Halifax with Leyland, lodging at a nearby inn. In December of 1846 a Sheriff’s officer turned up on the doorstep, throwing the household into disarray: it seemed Branwell had incurred outstanding debts at the Old Cock tavern in Halifax.

“I’m sorry for it, sir, but there are sums outstanding and I’ve got the landlord on at me day and night; he won’t wait for his money”

“Why can he not show some self-restraint and curb his excessive drinking?” raged Charlotte, as their long-suffering father was once again obliged to settle his son’s debts. “What I don’t understand” she continued, when her father had returned to his study “is where he gets the money from to run up such debts in the first place. I know Father gives him very little, for he cannot be trusted” At this point Anne disclosed what she had learned from her former employer’s daughters, who still kept up a regular correspondence with their governess. It appeared that Branwell was in receipt of mysterious sums of money from Mrs. Robinson, which were delivered by her physician, who acted as go-between. To salve her conscience or to keep him quiet, wondered Charlotte. There was no way of knowing and it was all very unsettling.

“I wonder that the Misses Robinson are so eager to divulge their mother’s private affairs to you” remarked Emily to Anne “They cannot have much respect for her”

“They tell me that she does not care in the least what becomes of them; she is only anxious to get them husbands of any kind that they may be off her hands, and that she may be free to marry Sir Edward Scott” said Anne. “Indeed, I feel very sorry for them”

“Brazen creature” muttered Charlotte “If this is her character how could Branwell be so foolish as to fall for her charms?”

“I thought her very kind at first” admitted Anne “And she shows a quite different aspect to persons of the opposite sex: she is the sort of woman who dotes on her son but neglects her daughters”

Towards the end of the year it became extremely cold, and they all came down with coughs and colds. As the snow piled up in great billowing drifts on the moors, even the waterfall froze into solid ropes and stalactites of ice, and Emily was forced to abandon her daily walks across the heights above Haworth. With his sight almost fully restored, Patrick resumed his campaign in the newspapers for wider education, in the teeth of opposition from certain factions in the established Church, who argued that educating the lower orders was asking for trouble. In support of the government’s scheme for compulsory national education, he wrote an impassioned letter which was printed in the Leeds Intelligencer: “…it will be recorded in men’s minds and the imperishable pages of history, that a class of professing Christians, in highly favoured England, in the nineteenth century, opposed with all their might the best plan ever devised, or that could be devised, for the universal spread of divine knowledge, and useful science…” He was equally enthusiastic about the discovery of ether.

“Is this not wonderful? Amputations and other surgical operations can now be conducted without any attendant pain and suffering” Of course it had come too late to benefit him personally, but as Charlotte was suffering acutely from an abscessed tooth, she wondered whether ether was readily available to dentists, of whom she had a complete horror.

“How does it work, Papa?” she asked her father, clutching her swollen jaw.

“Why, I believe it is a vapour you inhale which sends you to sleep. I’m sure it must be quite safe, but if your tooth is troubling you, my dear, I will fetch in the doctor. Let me first consult Graham’s Modern Domestic Medicine…” Her father reached for his well-worn copy and found the page he was looking for “For toothache he advocates a poultice..” Charlotte listened respectfully, knowing from personal experience that Graham’s remedies and panaceas were seldom efficacious, but was nevertheless pleased to see her father in such good form. Although his vision would never be perfect the operation had given him a new lease of life.

Later that evening Emily took firm hold of Charlotte’s chin, as if she were examining a calf, and commanded her to open her mouth. “Let me see it” she insisted. Charlotte complied nervously, remembering the occasion when her sister had cauterised her arm with a hot iron after being bitten by a rabid dog. “It needs to be lanced” was Emily’s matter-of-fact verdict. Charlotte shied away in alarm: she had visions of Emily marching off to fetch a bodkin from her sewing kit and plunging it into the abscess. In the end, a cloth dipped in ice cold water from the well was held to her cheek to “deaden the sensation” until a doctor could be consulted. Dr. Wheelhouse endorsed Emily’s verdict, and the lancing was performed in the kitchen with Anne holding Charlotte’s hand. In response to the latter’s diffident enquiries about the respective merits of ether and “laughing” gas, he smiled.

“It is nothing. One little prick and it will be over” The business was concluded in a matter of seconds, and the relief was immediate. Within two days her toothache had subsided and Charlotte was able to resume her normal activities.

When the weather became milder in February, Patrick attended lectures on public health at Keighley, which prompted him to complain once again to the Board of Health about the unsanitary conditions prevailing at Haworth. He harangued Church dignitaries and whoever would listen, gesticulating vehemently and waving his stick about as he pointed out the dangers, insisting that there should be no more interments, and that a new graveyard was needed to accommodate the mounting number of corpses.

They were all looking forward to Ellen’s visit in May, which had to be deferred until August. Another of Branwell’s poems entitled The End of All appeared in the Halifax Guardian in June, and Charlotte decided to re-submit The Professor to the relatively new firm of publishers Smith & Elder whose proprietor, George Smith, was only 23. Although they declined to publish it, their reader – a William Smith Williams - did find some merit in the writing, and they stated they would consider a work in three volumes from the same author. Greatly encouraged, Charlotte was spurred on to complete Jane Eyre within two weeks, and the manuscript was sent off at the end of August. Ellen’s visit to Haworth in the same month coincided with increased agitation for repeal of the Corn Laws, and strikes by powerloom workers as a result of a slump in trade. As the violence escalated there was talk of armed insurrection.

“When lawful assembly descends to mob rule, I can no longer countenance their actions” said Patrick, forgetting that his young guest had little or no interest in politics. “Moderation must prevail, and wrongs must be redressed by legitimate means….” Charlotte and Ellen discussed matters closer to home on their walks across the moors, with Charlotte being careful to reveal nothing of their joint literary enterprise to her friend - in deference to Emily’s wishes.

“George was allowed home last weekend” said Ellen in answer to Charlotte’s query. “But he is still claims to hear voices which are not there” She sighed heavily “Mama seems to think that most ills can be cured with nourishing soups, but the doctors say that the mind is a very delicate organism, and once the balance has been upset….” Her words trailed off uncertainly.

“If they cannot find a cure then perhaps you should keep him at home” said Charlotte. “We had a terrible scare with Branwell, when his bedclothes caught fire, caused by a candle which had not been properly extinguished. He had drunk himself into a stupor and was completely insensible to the flames”

“How dreadful” exclaimed Ellen “What happened?”

“Fortunately, Anne happened to be passing his room and caught a glimpse of the orange glow behind his door, and raised the alarm” She went on to relate how Emily had dashed into her brother’s room and dragged a semi-conscious Branwell from his bed whilst the others stood in the passageway gazing on in horror. Their father always kept buckets full of water in the kitchen for just such an emergency, and Emily had dealt with the fire swiftly and efficiently, directing Anne to fetch buckets of water from the kitchen, which were passed to Charlotte at the foot of the stairs, who handed them to Emily who rushed back and forth to douse the flames. Thanks to Emily’s prompt action, Branwell escaped injury and in a slurred voice had demanded to know why he was being so roughly “manhandled”, before falling straight back to sleep. Charlotte omitted to mention that she had written the episode into Jane Eyre, where Rochester is rescued in a similar dramatic manner by the heroine: in her fictional account the mad Mrs. Rochester had escaped from the attic and deliberately set the blaze.

“Brothers can be so unpredictable” said Ellen meditatively “And yet one cannot help being fond of them. Henry is quite well and asks after you. Now tell me about your father’s curate, Mr. Nicholls”

“There is nothing much to tell” replied Charlotte “He is more conscientious in his duties than his predecessor James Smith, but I find him narrow-minded, and there is something about him I do not like. He holds his cards very close to his chest” They fell to reminiscing about William Weightman, who had died so tragically five years ago. “Dear Celia Amelia…” sighed Charlotte “He was such fun – do you remember our playful gatherings, and the time we all received mysterious Valentines in the post?” Ellen smiled at the recollection.

“I think I have given up all thoughts of marriage” she now said “But Mary and Miss Wooler are quite content to remain single, so why shouldn’t we?”

“She is admirable” agreed Charlotte, who still corresponded with her former headmistress “And I certainly have no intentions of becoming a crotchety old crosspatch - you will be good enough let me know if I start to exhibit any such symptoms?”

Chapter Eight – 1847 -1848

Jane Eyre was published in October 1847 by Smith & Elder and the book appeared early in December to immediate acclaim. There was a rush for copies, and at the age of 32 Charlotte had achieved her ambition to be a successful author. The publishers included a favourable report from her literary hero William Makepiece Thackeray, who had read it through in one sitting. As she read the accolades, Charlotte could scarcely contain her excitement: “Decidedly the best novel of the season”, “a story of surpassing interest”, “This is an extraordinary book…the story is unlike all that we have read, with very few exceptions; and for the power of thought and expression, we do not know its rival among modern productions…all the serious novel writers of the day lose in comparison with Currer Bell”

Although Emily and Anne’s novels had been submitted well before Jane Eyre there were lengthy delays before both books were finally accepted by the publishers Newby on insulting terms: they agreed to advance £50 which would only be refunded if the firm sold enough copies to cover their outlay. Indignant on their behalf, Charlotte suggested they use her own publishers instead, but in a bid to assert their independence Anne and Emily stubbornly adhered to their original publisher.

“Charlotte shall not dictate the terms” insisted Emily. Their books were published in December 1847 to mixed reviews: “There is not in the entire dramatis personae a single character which is not utterly hateful or thoroughly contemptible” affirmed one critic of Wuthering Heights, whilst another wrote more favourably that the novel struck him “as proceeding from a mind of limited experience, but of original energy, and of a singular and distinctive cast” An American reviewer was moved to declare “Fascinated by strange magic we read what we dislike, we become interested in characters which are most revolting to our feelings, and are made subject to the immense power, of the book…We are spellbound, we cannot choose but read”

“If they find it so revolting to their senses they might spare themselves the trouble of reading it” muttered Emily. Perhaps because of the adverse reviews, Wuthering Heights was selling well, whereas Agnes Grey passed almost unnoticed except amongst that class of female readers who could readily identify with the peculiar plight of the governess.

Charlotte now struck up a regular correspondence with WS Williams, who had been the first to recognise that her writing had merit. Requested to provide a preface to the second edition of Jane Eyre - whose heroine had been lambasted as “improper” and “unwomanly”- she wrote in her own defence: “Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns. These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct as is vice from virtue..”

Patrick was completely unaware of the furore in literary circles caused by his daughters, being preoccupied with more pressing domestic matters. The landlord of Old Cock tavern in Halifax had written to Patrick threatening a court summons unless Branwell’s bills were settled and in January they were paid yet another visit from a sheriff’s officer. The latter had promised the landlord the bill would be paid shortly, with added interest: he was still waiting for an advance from Mrs. Robinson to be delivered through the intermediary of her physician, and wrote to Leyland in despair: “If he refuses my offer and presses me with law I am RUINED. I have had 5 months of such utter sleeplessness, violent cough and frightful agony of mind that jail would destroy me forever…”

“The prospect of our brother languishing in a dank cold cell in York Castle gaol, with his frail constitution and chronic bronchitis, caused us all much concern and alarm” Charlotte wrote to Ellen “Needless to say all the debts were settled promptly by Father. We are all suffering with severe colds, Anne with asthma and a persistent cough” As Tabby was by now nearly 80, a girl was brought in to assist Martha with the household chores, which left the sisters with more free time. Every evening after their father had retired they paced round the dining room table, discussing plots and characters. Anne had already begun to write her second book The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Charlotte was still hopeful of finding an audience for The Professor.

Within three months the first edition of Jane Eyre had sold out, and the book had to be reprinted twice in January and April 1848. The sisters resolved that Branwell could not be told as the news would only exacerbate his condition, which had been steadily deteriorating. As a result of his drinking and frequent recourse to laudanum, he now suffered from hallucinations and night terrors. On one occasion the entire household was awoken by loud screams issuing from Branwell’s room “Go AWAY! NO NO! Leave me be!” Roused from his slumber, Patrick hurried into his son’s bedchamber only to behold the spectacle of Branwell flailing his arms about in terror, in a desperate attempt to ward off some unseen foe. His wasted body was trembling uncontrollably, his staring eyes practically rolling in his head. It took some five minutes for Patrick to restrain him, and for Branwell to recognise his father.

“The demons, Papa” gasped Branwell, clutching at his father “They have come for me. They have come to claim their prey. There is no hope…”

“-Hush, there are no demons in this room. Be still, now, there is always hope” Patrick picked up the contents of a half empty vial on the night stand and was about to dash the contents into the hearth, then thought better of it. He ushered Branwell out onto the landing and towards his own bedchamber, where he could keep a watchful eye on him. Tabby had by now emerged from her room, to see what all the fuss was about, and Branwell’s sisters stood apart in a little huddle on the landing.

“It is the delirium tremens” Patrick told them “Go back to bed. I will take charge of him for this night, and fetch a doctor in the morning” The following morning, Patrick summoned Dr. Wheelhouse who performed an examination on Branwell before administering a bromide to help him sleep. He then joined Patrick for a private consultation in his study. The latter handed over the vial wordlessly.

“It is as I thought” commented Dr. Wheelhouse, after inspecting the contents “The drug has a hold on him, and you will need to be extra vigilant. Coupled with this are the effects of excessive drinking, and a corporeal weakness stemming from congenital phthisis which runs in the family”

“Is he losing his mind?” asked Patrick.

“Not yet, but if he continues in this manner he will surely die. If your son had a more robust constitution he might have been able to throw off the more pernicious effects of the drug. Laudanum is an opium-based palliative, and as such highly addictive. I have long argued that it should not be so readily available and so cheap to procure. I am afraid that his bodily craving for opium will worsen, and he will resort to almost anything to feed his craving. Do you give him an allowance?” Patrick shook his head.

“I provide for his material wants, but since he was dismissed from his last post he is dependent on me for money. I have discharged several debts he has incurred, but no sooner have I settled one than another springs up in its stead”

“This is all too sadly common in cases of this kind. He may well progress to petty thefts in order to obtain further supplies”

“But these offences are all produced by the effects of the drug? He is not inherently vicious…he is a good boy..” Dr. Wheelhouse sought to reassure the stricken father.

“Yes, these vices arise principally from abuse of the drug and are not within the conscious control of the patient. We condemn the sin but not the sinner. The artistic temperament is unfortunately most susceptible to nervous collapse – and I have seen many instances of this type of bodily and moral decline in the best of families. His conduct may have all the appearance of culpability, but it is important to bear in mind that the sufferer cannot help his behaviour ”

“But what can I do? What treatment is there?”

“I fear none: the only way to arrest the progress is to deny him access to the drug, and to place severe restrictions on his freedom of movement. If his behaviour should become violent or threatening, there is an excellent asylum close by I can recommend-”

“-NO!” interrupted Patrick vehemently “I will care for him under this roof. Continue - I must restrict his activities and deny him access to the drug – what else? Are there any remedies we can apply to halt the progress?”

“I fear he is too far gone,” repeated the doctor “but we may yet be able to effect a partial cure through rest, as little excitement as possible, and a complete prohibition on all stimulants. In conclusion, sir, it may not be possible to halt his physical decline, but you may yet save his soul” These parting words had a profound effect on Patrick, who looked grim as he steeled himself to face the impending trial. This was a battle he was well-equipped to undertake and one that he was determined to win. From then on Patrick insisted that Branwell sleep with him in his own bedroom, ignoring his son’s protests, and the arguments between these two would often go on until the small hours.

“Would you shackle me to the bedstead, Father? If I am so unworthy and unfit to associate with my fellow human beings, you might as well consign me to the asylum without further delay, where my grinning cadaver will toast your good health” He even threatened to shoot his father. “Either you or I shall die this night, so which will it be?” One evening Branwell rebelled openly against his detention, and declared his intention to go to the tavern.

“You cannot keep me confined to the house like a chained beast. I am going to the Black Bull, where my company is appreciated” The discharge of a musket sounded loud in the frosty night air, as Patrick gave vent to his frustration. “Shoot me if you will, Father” called Branwell over his shoulder from the wicket gate “My back presents a perfect target for you”

Branwell staggered home later that night, weaving his unsteady way up the steep acclivity. Ice had begun to form on the cobblestones as the temperatures plummeted, and at one point he slid and lost his footing, crashing into the wall which bordered the Sunday school. He lay insensible, face down, for about fifteen minutes until a pair of strong arms hoisted him to his feet. It was William Brown, the sexton’s brother, who had emerged from an inn further up the main street in time to see Branwell’s figure disappear up Church Lane.

“We’d best get ye back to the parsonage. Here, John gi’ us a hand will ye” he called to his brother, who was some steps behind. “Parson’s son’s bin at the dog’s nose, by the looks on ‘im. Aye, ye’ll have a bruise the size of a duck’s egg the morrow…” Branwell had come to and was looking about him in some astonishment.

“Just a little slip, gennlemen. I seem to have collided with an obstrushion…” They helped him back to the parsonage and through the front door, by which time Patrick had descended the staircase. “Sorry to disturb yer rest Vicar, but we found ‘un lying further down the lane – knocked hisself out but none the worse for wear. If ye’ll light the way we’ll get him upstairs to his couch…” Between them, they got Branwell up the stairs and deposited him unceremoniously onto his bed. “Only let ‘un sleep it off and he’ll be right as rain the morn. We’ll bid ye goodnight then, Vicar” Patrick thanked them for their trouble.

“He’s a grand old man” commented John to his brother, once they were outside. “Young Patrick’s been going some of late. Someone ought to keep an eye out for the lad: if we hadn’t chanced on him he’d have near froze to death”

* * * *

With parcels of books arriving so frequently from the publishers, it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain the fiction that nothing was happening. After some discussion the sisters decided to tell their father of their literary ventures.

“Papa’s been so despondent of late, it might lift his spirits if he knew of the success of Jane Eyre” said Charlotte. They went to confront him in his study one afternoon, and Patrick looked up from his paper at their entrance. He had been reading of the recent upheavals on the Continent – the abdication of the King of France, the proclamation of a Republic and the flight of the royal family.

“Have you heard, Charlotte? Louis Philippe has been dethroned” Patrick shook his head in disbelief “This bodes ill for all of Europe. And should the contagion spread to these shores…. We live in dangerous times”

“Papa, there is something we wish to tell you” Patrick was thunderstruck by their news. “You are the author of Jane Eyre?” he kept asking Charlotte, looking in amazement from one to the other. (Emily had requested of the others that they keep quiet about Wuthering Heights, until he had got more used to the idea) They showed him the reviews, and letters from the publishers.

“We thought it might cheer you to know that we are able to support ourselves, without being a burden to you” said Anne, showing him the printed copy of Agnes Grey “This has not done so well as Charlotte’s book, but I am writing another at present and Emily….Oh, Emily for goodness sake tell him you have written one too” Emily was reluctantly forced to acknowledge her authorship of Wuthering Heights, taking care to only show him the most favourable reviews. Once the news had truly sunk in, their father agreed that it would be best to keep this intelligence from Branwell, in his present condition.

Later that evening Charlotte wrote to Miss Wooler: “as little doubt have I, that convulsive revolutions put back the world in all that is good, check civilisation, bring the dregs of society to its surface; in short, it appears to me that insurrections and battles are the acute diseases of nations, and that their tendency is to exhaust, by their violence, the vital energies of the countries where they occur. That England may be spared the spasms, cramps, and frenzy-fits now contorting the Continent, and threatening Ireland, I earnestly pray. With the French and Irish I have no sympathy..”

Perhaps as a reaction to the French revolution, with which there was little sympathy in England, the demands of the Chartists were given short shrift in Parliament. However, the Public Health Act was passed, largely as a result of Edwin Chadwick’s Report on the Sanitary Conditions of the Working Class, which had been written six years previously.

“At last” declared Patrick with satisfaction “Perhaps we will see a new system of pipes laid down in Haworth, and there will be fewer mortalities”

On one of the rare occasions Charlotte was able to persuade Emily to accompany her on an expedition into the village, they overheard a conversation between the daughters of a local mill-owner outside the milliner’s shop in the High Street.

“…They are saying that the author of Wuthering Heights lives somewhere in the West Riding: I am simply dying to discover where the mysterious Mr. Ellis Bell resides. I think he must be quite mad, and completely beyond redemption to have created such a wicked character as Heathcliff...”

“Yes, but I own I have taken quite a fancy to Heathcliff. If I were to be introduced to such a man, I feel sure I should be able to reform him-”

“-Eliza, how can you!” interjected her sister in shocked tones “He is the very Devil himself. If Papa knew that you had been reading Wuthering Heights…I could scarcely bring myself to read that monstrous scene where Heathcliff digs up Cathy’s grave with his bare hands. I almost fainted with the sheer horror of it…Oh, good morning Miss Bronte, Miss Emily…”

“Good morning” replied Emily between gritted teeth, her eyes already fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon.

“How does your father-?” began Helen but Emily had already swiftly passed on, leaving Charlotte to engage in pleasantries and small talk with the sisters. “Miss Bronte, we were just discussing the latest novel by the Bell brothers. I don’t suppose you are able to afford many new books – Papa has an account with a London bookseller, you know” She was forced to address her remarks to Charlotte as Emily had by now disappeared from sight “But do feel free to borrow any books which take your fancy” she added, in the slightly patronising tone she adopted when speaking to those less affluent than themselves.

“That is most kind” murmured Charlotte “But we are quite content with the circulating library. However, I did manage to get hold of a copy of Jane Eyre from my friend Miss Nussey. Have you read it?” she enquired, curious to know their opinions of her own production.

“Oh yes!” exclaimed Eliza enthusiastically, before her sister had a chance to respond. “Mr. Rochester is decidedly the man for me. Why are there no such interesting men in these parts? Sometimes I despair of ever finding a suitable match. But how I wish he had not gone blind after the fire: that rather spoiled the ending. And that dreadful insane creature in the attic! I declare, it gave me nightmares...”

“Well!” exclaimed Charlotte, when she eventually caught up with Emily “Between them, the Messrs Bell have managed to flutter quite a few dovecotes” Emily flashed her sister one of her rare smiles. She seemed amused by the encounter. “I wonder what Ellen would have to say” she went on in a complicit tone. Emily shot her a warning look.

“Remember your promise to us: to preserve our anonymity”

“I shan’t breathe a word” replied Charlotte quickly. She had learned her lesson, and had no desire to incur Emily’s wrath a second time.

Charlotte’s voluminous correspondence kept her fully occupied, whilst Anne continued writing her second novel, and Emily completed another poem.

Riches I hold in light esteem,

And Love I laugh to scorn;

And lust of fame was but a dream,

That vanished with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer

That moves my lips for me

Is, “Leave the heart that now I bear,

And give me liberty!

Yes, as my swift days near their goal:

‘Tis all that I implore;

In life and death a chainless soul,

With courage to endure.

Whilst insisting that they retain their pseudonyms, Emily had reconciled herself to the inevitability of wider public acclaim and now welcomed the prospect for very different reasons than her older sister: she wanted to be able to secure enough influence to help Branwell to achieve his own literary ambitions, and had secretly resolved to do everything in her power to further this aim. She still hoped that – given an opportunity to show off his own unique talents – he would be able to pull himself out of the morass he had become mired in. She was aware that he could not do this unaided, and she would be the one to secure his future: once this was achieved she could once more retire into the obscurity she so preferred.

Meanwhile Charlotte confided in WS Williams that one day she would like to go into the greater world. “..Ellis, I imagine, would soon turn aside from the spectacle in disgust. I do not think he admits it as his creed that “the proper study of mankind is man – at least not the artificial man of cities. In some points I consider Ellis somewhat of a theorist: now and then he broaches ideas which strike my sense as much more daring and original than practical; his reason may be in advance of mine, but certainly it often travels a different road. I should say Ellis will not be seen in his full strength till he is seen as an essayist”

* * * *

“Look at this: I only offered to let her read it” Anne showed Emily her manuscript with some indignation: it had been blue-pencilled beyond all recognition, with Charlotte’s ubiquitous commentary on the margins of every page. …The emphasis here, is somewhat misplaced… This passage needs to be revised. Restraint in language and succinctness of expression is to be striven for at all times… An ill-advised adjective. I would instead suggest…An infelicitous expression, but it does manage to convey the sentiment intended… You have overcooked the goose… And so it went on.

“Heavens above” exclaimed Emily “Why do you put up with it? Overcooked the goose indeed. Perhaps she needs to be reminded that she copied your original idea of having a governess as the central character from Agnes Grey. I think the success of Jane Eyre has gone to her head. I will have a word with her directly”

“No, Emily, really it does not signify” protested Anne, now thoroughly alarmed at what she might have set in train “It is just Charlotte being the schoolmistress. She was like that at Roe Head…” But Emily had already gone to confront Charlotte. Hovering on the landing and in two minds as to whether to intervene, Anne overhead a heated exchange between the two sisters, followed by an ominous silence. And then Emily reappeared, waving her manuscript.

“Here – take it. She will not interfere with your writing again, you may depend on it”

“But she will be annoyed with me now. She will think we are both against her…” Emily shrugged.

“Let her think what she wants. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall stands on its own merits and is not something she could have written – you do not need her meddlesome advice”

“It’s all very well for you” retorted Anne mildly “You do not have to share a room with her”

“Why do you think I chose this room over Aunt’s? It might be cramped, bare and cold but that is the way I like it. I value my independence” When, much later, Anne ventured to return to their bedroom she found Charlotte furiously scribbling a note to Mary Taylor – now in New Zealand with her brother Joe: “… I have done everything I can for those two. It is I who deals with all the onerous business correspondence, and it is I who undertook the thankless and tedious task of sending out our manuscripts to every publisher in the land, and now when we are finally able to reap the rewards of our labour… I leave you to draw your own conclusions, but their ingratitude beggars belief…” Charlotte blotted the page and folded it up as Anne entered the room.

“Charlotte, I did not mean to offend you…” began Anne “I know that you mean well…”

“There is no need to apologise for speaking your mind” interrupted Charlotte coolly. “It is to be commended, and I believe Emily does very well in that department” She had begun a fresh letter to Ellen Nussey, and scarcely looked up as Anne performed her nightly ablutions over the washstand. “Dear Nell, I am writing to enquire whether it would be convenient to visit with you. I find that your companionship is sorely missed..” A week later Charlotte announced that she would be spending a fortnight with the Nusseys at Brookroyd, and departed in good spirits.

Anne’s second novel The Tenant of Wildfell Hall was published in June 1848 by Newby, and attracted much wider notice than Agnes Grey. In the second edition she wrote a preface in which she defended her choice of subject matter: “when we have to do with vice and vicious characters, I maintain it is better to depict them as they really are than as they would wish to appear. To represent a bad thing in its least offensive light, is doubtless the most agreeable course for a writer of fiction to pursue; but is it the most honest, or safest? Is it better to reveal the snares and pitfalls of life to the young and thoughtless traveller, or to cover them with branches and flowers?…”

At first it was believed that all three books were the work of one author - suggested by Emily and Anne’s publishers as a cynical ploy to enhance their own reputation. Smith & Elder jumped to the erroneous conclusion that Charlotte must have submitted her work to a rival publisher, and to clear up the confusion she and Anne decided to go to London in July in order to prove their separate identities. Emily refused to accompany her sisters, stating she had no desire to waive her anonymity or to go into society. Just before they departed from Haworth, Anne saw the silhouette of their brother standing at an upper window. She waved to him uncertainly, and nudged Charlotte. “Look, he has seen us: I thought he was asleep” Charlotte frowned. Branwell had not been told of the purpose of their journey, and Emily had been instructed to say they were visiting her friend Ellen.

“I don’t think he suspects anything” answered Charlotte. None of them liked the deception, but it couldn’t be helped. Their portmanteaus strapped down, the gig set off down Church Lane at a brisk trot.

* * * *

“I must confess I had a sneaking suspicion that you were not what you seemed, when you requested all future correspondence be addressed c/o Miss Charlotte Bronte” admitted the youthful proprietor of Smith & Elder, once he had recovered from his surprise at the appearance of two women claiming to be Currer and Acton Bell. He began to laugh. “Now, you must both come to dinner this evening. No refusals, my mother is desirous to make your acquaintance. I will send a brougham round to collect you at eight” As Smith raised Charlotte’s hand to his lips, murmuring “The pleasure is entirely mine, my dear Miss Bronte” Anne glanced at her sister. She could tell Charlotte was already smitten, and privately wondered where this would lead. She and Emily often discussed their older sister’s silliness and foolish infatuations when it came to the opposite sex: first there had been William Weightman – whose heart had been clearly engaged elsewhere – and then the little French “despot”, who was already spoken for, and now there was her handsome young publisher: useless to point out that most eligible bachelors were drawn to women who possessed youth and beauty or wealth – an inescapable truth which was blindingly obvious to everyone except Charlotte. She would not accept that the force of her intellect was not sufficient in itself to attract those to whom she found herself attracted.

“From our lodgings at the Chapter Coffee House in Paternoster Row we were whirled off to the opera to see Rossini’s Barber of Seville” Charlotte wrote to her father. “You cannot imagine the stir we caused by our appearance in our plain and drab country garb amidst the grand ladies in their elegant gowns. We have been taken to exhibitions at the Royal Academy and the National Gallery. It is all very exciting but fatiguing, and we are both so exhausted we can hardly stand up..”

“Couldn’t we see some of the sights on our own?” pleaded Anne, on their third day in the capital “I should love to climb up into the Whispering Gallery at St. Paul’s cathedral and to visit the Zoological Gardens in Regents Park. I have had enough of the theatre and the opera. And I’m sure Emily would want to visit Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey, if she were here”

“Then Emily should have come herself” countered Charlotte, who was still vexed by Emily’s obstinate refusal to accompany her to London. “Oh, very well” she relented, seeing the bewildered expression in Anne’s blue eyes “I shall try and put off Mr. Smith’s mother this afternoon. Perhaps he would be willing to offer his services as escort” she added.

“But we don’t need an escort” protested Anne, who was growing weary of her sister’s obsession with George Smith “We are quite capable of getting about by ourselves…we could walk” They could actually see the dome of St. Pauls’ from their lodgings in Paternoster Row.

“Walk! The streets are filthy, Anne. Let us finish breakfast and then we shall see about hiring a fiacre to take us to the Abbey. I am afraid there will not be time to go to Regents Park as we must be ready for dinner at the Smith’s this evening ”. As it happened George Smith was too busy to squire them around London, and the two sisters spent a pleasant afternoon visiting the sights on their own.

“How do you think the ferocious Mr. Ellis Bell would react to having his hand kissed by George Smith?” Anne asked of her sister, as they were handed into the carriage.

“I don’t imagine he would countenance such presumptuous familiarity for one instant” returned Charlotte, as they collapsed onto the plush upholstery in a fit of giggles.

At the parsonage Branwell was suffering from chronic bronchitis, asleep most of the day and wakeful at night. His frail constitution had by now been thoroughly wrecked by opium. Emily did not shrink from the sight of her brother, and she took it upon herself to care for him whilst he lay in a stupor – changing his bed linen and keeping his room freshly aired. It was not just stubbornness that had kept her at the parsonage, when she knew very well Charlotte would have preferred her company to Anne’s.

Following the near-fatal conflagration, Emily feared for her brother’s safety. With the worst of the delirium tremors having passed, Patrick had deemed it safe for Branwell to move back into his old room. If the fire had occurred whilst they had all three been absent, with Papa and Tabby fast asleep upstairs….Emily shuddered to think what the consequences might have been. Clearly, someone needed to keep a close eye on him: Papa and Tabby were getting on in years and her sisters could not be counted on to perform this duty – Charlotte because she found Branwell’s presence increasingly distasteful, and Anne because she was too timid to approach him. Emily, however, had no compunction about marching into her brother’s bedchamber to check that candles had been properly extinguished.

“I’m not an infant” Branwell protested feebly. Emily smiled to herself.

“No? Nevertheless, you cannot be trusted. If you have no care for your own safety, at least think of the rest of the household”

“I stand rebuked” muttered Branwell “I hope you are not turning into another bossy governess, like the other two” He sighed heavily “I am judged and found wanting. By the right Reverend Bronte, and his saintly daughters…”

“Branwell” Emily shut him up with one of her looks.

“What?”

“Enough. You are better than this” There was a short silence, then Branwell seemed to recollect himself.

“Speak to me then. Don’t talk down to me, like Charlotte does. Or behind closed doors, like Anne does” Emily pulled up a chair. Branwell was sitting up in bed, his pillows piled high against the bedstead.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“Do you remember I once asked you whether you believed in God?” Emily nodded. She remembered the conversation: it was just after he had lost his position at Thorp Green and when he had been at one of his lowest ebbs. “You did not immediately answer so I put the question again to you: ‘Do you love God?’ and your reply was ‘I love God’s earth’. By this I took it to mean you loved all that he had created – the moon, the stars, the hills, the valleys, the rivers, especially the moors…but when I said God’s creation includes not only the beasts and birds but your fellow human beings, and I pressed you again for an answer: do you love them all equally? You answered that you loved the creatures of the earth, but you could not love mankind” It was rare that Branwell broached religious topics, and she waited for what would come next. “By this I concluded that you love God’s earth but not God himself, and that you love all of his creation save mankind. Do you still hold to this?” Emily was silent whilst she considered her reply.

“I would be lying if I denied it” said Emily finally. “Papa would be horrified by such an admission, as it does not make me a true Christian, and it upsets Anne so I do not speak of it”

“But the Pantheists – like Shelley and Wordsworth - maintain God is in all of his creation, which it follows must therefore be sacred”

“For my own part I think that God – if he exists in a transcendent form - is cruel and capricious, and for the most part I shun my fellow human beings” Branwell looked at her.

“You are honest, Emily. You are unlike the others. For this reason, I have reposed my trust in you. I have always relied on you to tell me the truth when others seek to conceal it from me”

“I will always tell you the truth”

“Then don’t withhold the truth from me now, Emily. I insist that you tell me: have you succeeded in publishing what you have written? I am not speaking of the book of verse - I know all about that - but there has been talk in the village. I am not deaf and blind. Have you three at last managed to succeed where I have failed?” The fiction had been maintained that all three sisters had been invited to stay with the Nusseys – with Emily declining the invitation – but just prior to their departure Martha had overheard Anne saying to Charlotte “I can’t tell you much I am dreading it, Charlotte. I do so hope we are not presented to fashionable London society, we have no decent gowns…”

“Branwell…you were ill, raving, delirious. Charlotte thought it best that we keep this from you because of your condition-”

“– I knew it! I heard you discussing publication. You thought I was dozing but I heard every single word! Tell me, is it true that Jane Eyre is a literary sensation?” He was looking at her pleadingly “Do you imagine you could keep such a secret from me? The servants are speculating as to why Charlotte and Anne have suddenly rushed off to London, and whilst you were out walking a postman came to the door enquiring about Currer Bell. Martha said there was no such person in the parish. But I know the identity of Currer Bell, and I know the identity of Ellis and Acton Bell”

“What would you have me say, Branwell?” Her brother looked utterly wretched.

“There is nothing to say. I don’t begrudge your success, indeed I wish you the best of it, Emily. But what I find hardest to stomach is that Charlotte now has the chance to mingle with men of letters, authors and poets. She will almost certainly be introduced to Thackeray…” Branwell was working himself into a passion, and his body spasmed as he succumbed to a violent fit of coughing. Emily poured him some water from the carafe by his bedside, and held it to his lips.

“Charlotte does not care for the literary coteries any more than I do”

“But that is just it! I should have loved it – I desired nothing more than what she now has within her grasp. It is all given to one who does not want or prize their friendship” And withheld from me, he did not add, but the words remained unspoken. Yes, thought Emily, with a sudden image of her brother holding forth amidst the savants and wits, the leading lights of London – you would have been able to do that, to hold your own. Suddenly all the fight seemed to go out of him, and he sank back onto his pillows in a depression “Leave me now, I am weary. I wish to sleep” Emily passed a hand across his head, then rose from the bed silently.

“Things will seem better in the morning, Branni” she murmured.

From Anne and Charlotte’s room, formerly their aunt’s, Emily gazed up at the glittering, multitudinous stars that thronged the night sky - so cold, so distant. Was it a sin to love God’s creation more than God Himself? Or were they one and the same thing? Was God contained within Nature as the Pantheists maintained? Nature has the power to inspire, and to give solace to the weary soul where religion cannot.

Shall Earth no more inspire thee,

Thou lonely dreamer now?

Since passion may not fire thee

Shall nature cease to bow?

Thy mind is ever moving

In regions dark to thee;

Recall its useless roving

Come back and dwell with me

I know my mountain breezes

Enchant and soothe thee still

I know my sunshine pleases

Despite thy wayward will

When day with evening blending

Sinks from the summer sky,

I’ve seen thy spirit bending

In fond idolatry

I’ve watched thee every hour

I know my mighty sway

I know my magic power

To drive thy griefs away

Few hearts to mortal given

On earth so wildly pine

Yet none would ask a Heaven

More like this Earth than thine

Then let my winds caress thee

Thy comrade let me be

Since nought beside can bless thee

Return and dwell with me

The following day Branwell was well enough to go downstairs after his father had gone out. He encountered Patrick’s curate, Arthur Bell Nicholls, exiting the study.

“What, still skulking about, Nicholls?” Branwell looked at him more closely: there was something furtive about his movements. He was not entirely befuddled by drink and still had his wits about him “What were you doing in my father’s study?” he repeated sharply.

“I dropped by to see if I could be of service” replied Nicholls blandly. “There are four more baptisms to perform this afternoon, and I am aware that his eyesight is failing”

“It is no worse than it has ever been” countered Branwell “Since his operation he no longer requires an amanuensis. He is not at home, as should be evident if you had had the courtesy of knocking before entering” Nicholls eyed him with ill-concealed distaste.

“Is there some small service I might perform for you?” He spoke with a slight Scottish intonation “You seem somewhat the worse for wear”

“I am always the worse for wear. I have taken to imbibing gin, the only tipple I can afford these days” Branwell grimaced. “You could perhaps procure a bottle for me if it were not too much out of your way, but I forget, you do not frequent the taverns, do you? Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lenders’ books, and defy the foul fiend. No matter. I couldn’t pay you back anyway, since I am almost wholly dependent upon my father’s charity these days. Well, what do you want?” said Branwell irritably as Nicholls was still standing there, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“I could perhaps get you some brandy or laudanum, for medicinal purposes” offered Nicholls. “That is, if you were to become desperate” The village apothecary, Betty Hardacre, had been politely requested not to supply Branwell with laudanum if he came into her shop.

“Why would you do that?” Branwell clapped a hand to his forehead “Ah, but perhaps you have designs on my sister?” Charlotte had recently complained that Nicholls often stared at her, whilst saying nothing. “Charlotte is no oil painting” he continued “but now that her novel is such a runaway success, I doubt not that you think she is worth marrying” Branwell laughed. “A match made in Hades” he muttered sardonically to himself as he stumbled off, with Nicholls still staring after him.

“I do not trust him!” said Branwell vehemently to John Brown. They were seated in the Black Bull, Branwell having annexed his usual “pulpit” seat at the bend on the stairs. “He may be a conscientious curate for aught I know, but his manner is suspect. A singular specimen. He offered to procure some spirits for me, at his own expense, but he himself neither touches the stuff nor ventures anywhere near an inn or tavern. Is that not strange?”

“I’ve allus been of the opinion that you can’t trust a man that doesn’t drink” agreed John.

“Amen to that” said Branwell, raising a toast.

Let me have men about me that are fat;

Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’ nights;

Yond’ Cassius has a lean and hungry look;

He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

Having heard through Leyland that their friend was greatly depressed, and wishing to cheer him, Francis Grundy sent a message to the rectory in September, requesting the pleasure of Branwell’s company. Although Branwell was ill he rallied enough to make his way unsteadily to the inn to meet his old comrade-in-arms. The room was warm and cosy in the reflected fire-light, and Francis was seated at a table beneath the smoke-blackened rafters with a decanter of hot brandy and water before him. As the door opened, Francis looked up, shocked at his friend’s gaunt, unkempt appearance, and hastened forward to greet him.

“How are you?” Francis asked unnecessarily. “I haven’t seen you for some time”

“As well as can be expected” muttered Branwell, accepting the proffered glass. The awkwardness between them soon passed as the brandy flowed, and food was brought.

“I was sorry to hear you were ill” began Francis “and very sorry…”

“Do not pity me!” Branwell half-rose from his seat. “A thousand times, do not pity me. I have enough of that to contend with from my saintly sisters and that pillar of rectitude, my father. In my youth I was placed on a pedestal by them, and I have not lived up to their expectations. In all my past life I have done nothing either great or good. I am an egregious failure and it is useless to go on denying it. My aunt left me no pecuniary bequest” continued Branwell, his head down “Even she who once loved me best…”

“But Branwell, when her will was made she had expectations that you would attend the Royal Academy of Art, and that your prospects were bright. She undoubtedly thought you would be better able to provide for yourself than your sisters, which is why she left them the bequest” Branwell nodded resignedly.

“I know that you are right. How could my dear aunt have foreseen my fate….And as for Papa: he never rebukes or upbraids me for my conduct any more, he just looks at me with sorrow in his eyes as if I were hopeless, like one of his flock to whom he is obliged to administer the last rites”

“Your father was in here just now” said Francis. “He came to warn me that you might be late, and there was nothing but affection in his tones when he spoke of you. He told me you had both attended an oratorio recently” went on Francis, in an attempt to halt the flow of self-recriminations “and that the uplifting nature of the music deeply affected you”

“Yes, that is true” sighed Branwell. “He seeks to divert me with our old shared enthusiasms, and takes me with him to his sermons. What do you think he preached last Sunday? He took as his theme The Wanderer From the Fold. I believe my sister Emily has been inspired to write another poem of the same title, but I do not wish to read it, for it would depress me too much” Francis was silent, sensing that his friend wished to unburden himself.

“Forgive me if I cast you in the role of Father Confessor” went on Branwell “but you are the only person to whom I can open my heart freely. I have caused them much suffering. My sisters used to reproach me for having caused Papa such distress, and I am sorry for it. I have accused him falsely, arraigned him as being the author of my downfall when he is entirely blameless. By my past conduct I have forfeited all right to be admitted to their circle of confidence. Emily is the only one to whom I can sometimes speak – she sits with me quietly and faithfully when I am wracked by the demon drug, but does not judge or condemn”

“My dear fellow” Francis reached out and grasped his trembling hand “You must somehow lift yourself out of this abyss of despair. I have the highest regard for you. If there is anything I can do, some small service I can perform….”

“You sound like that wretch, Nicholls. I sometimes find a bottle of laudanum or gin placed beneath my pillow, when I know I have not put it there myself and know equally that none of my family would have done so. I suppose he thinks it brings me relief, and it does, after a fashion” Francis looked troubled at this disclosure, and interrupted him.

“-But if that is the case he is doing you a great disservice. Perhaps you should mention this to your father” Branwell waved aside his concerns and continued, oblivious to the interruption.

“There may be something you can do for me. If, after I am gone - nay, do not protest, I know I am not long for this world – if you could but set down your impressions of me on paper, so that my father might have the opportunity of viewing me in a less tarnished light. Please do not misconstrue my meaning - I do not crave unmerited panegyrics or lavish encomiums, but simply the truth: as I am and have always been. If one true and disinterested person could give testimony of my character, bear witness that I am not wholly without some redeeming traits, then perhaps my father would not bow his head in sorrow and shame when he thinks of me. That is all I ask” This sad speech left Francis almost in tears, and Branwell departed soon afterwards.

Branwell was confined to bed for the next few days and Charlotte had also taken to her bed, prostrate with fever. Her father looked in on her, saying quietly “It grieves me to say this, but I fear Branwell is not much longer for this world. When you are well enough, it would mean much if you would sit with him” Charlotte looked up.

“I hope to be feeling less wretched in a day or two, when this fever passes. My presence seems to unsettle Branwell, and spur him onto some strange defiance. I am desirous that he would meet his Maker in a spirit of humility and meekness, not defiance. I cannot, by my presence, place his soul in jeopardy” Her father regarded her gravely, then nodded.

“I understand. Then you must try to rest, Charlotte” He returned to his son. In passing their bedchamber the next morning she heard Patrick’s deep measured tones: “The consolations offered by philosophy are but meagre and fallacious compared to the solace afforded by religion: we should therefore prepare ourselves for that heavenly tribunal before which we shall all be called to answer…” Branwell managed a weak smile.

“Still preaching, Papa? Staunch to the end, I see”

“Go forth, my son, into the arms of our merciful redeemer. Only show true contrition, ask for forgiveness and it shall be given. Be not afraid…”

“I was not afraid before, Father, but your earnest praying makes me so. Will He forgive my sins?”

“Most assuredly. God loves all his children.” Emily kept a shadowy bedside vigil, her gaze unwavering but saying nothing. Branwell turned his head towards her, stretching out his hand. Emily came forward to grasp it.

“Well, Parry….it’s time, time for Rogue to walk the plank. I salute you, mon capitaine”. Patrick leaned forward to whisper something in his ear, then kissed his son’s forehead. “Amen” murmured Branwell softly. “I have lived badly, but I mean to……die well. I will meet my Maker standing up. The clouds are darkening… No, leave me be, I will stand unaided.” Branwell struggled to his feet, whilst Emily looked on in loving wonder, Patrick and Anne both praying fervently.

Ten minutes later, Charlotte passed by his bedchamber again, then stopped. With a sudden sharp intake of breath she rushed to Branwell’s side, but it was too late.

Patrick stumbled outside into the back courtyard, where he was heard haranguing God for nigh on two hours until he was hoarse. His voice rose and fell in ragged sobs, as he arraigned God’s mercy, railing at his cruelty. Eventually, his stronger nature won through and he attained a measure of calmness, retiring indoors to grieve alone.

* * * *

“These were my brother’s last words as he felt that dread summons from the Grim Reaper. He departed this earth Sun am Sept 24th aged 30 after a struggle of some 20 minutes, my father standing behind him and half supporting him. In the days before he died he was gentle and loving to his father and sisters. I can write no more at present…” Charlotte put down the letter to Ellen, and groped for her handkerchief. She had not really grasped how ill her brother was: he had expired whilst she was laid low with fever, and she had not been able to say her final goodbyes.

Anne appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, pale and stricken. “Charlotte, please come. I am afraid for Emily” Charlotte rose and followed her into the dimly-lit parlour where Emily stood rigid as a statue, her eyes sightless and her lips moving. But no sound came out.

“Emily…” Charlotte approached her softly, and tried to comfort her, but Emily would not be comforted. She shied away from her sister’s embrace and stood by the window, looking bleakly into the distance. Keeper sat at Emily’s feet - dimly conscious of her misery - and whined, a low piteous moan that wrung the heart. She stroked his head then turned to ascend the staircase, slowly and wearily like an old woman. Choking back her own misery, Charlotte returned to her own chamber. Anne crept into her sister’s bed and clung to her like a child. It was a long, terrible night.

Alone in her room, Emily clenched and unclenched her fists. Branwell is gone for evermore. I have lost my confederate, my playmate. My heart has been squeezed and wrung out. I can neither speak nor write. As if to mock her, one of Branwell’s favourite quotes from Lear floated unbidden into her mind:

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods;

They kill us for their sport.

Later that night, long after everyone had gone to bed, sobs were heard coming from Emily’s bedroom.

* * * *

In October Charlotte wrote to WS Williams:

“I do not weep from a sense of bereavement …but for the wreck of talent, the ruin of promise, the untimely dreary extinction of what might have been a burning and a shining light…There is such a bitterness of pity for his life and death, such a yearning for the emptiness of his whole existence as I cannot describe… My poor father naturally thought more of his only son than of his daughters, and, much and long as he had suffered on his account, he cried out for his loss like David for that of Absalom – my son my son! – and refused at first to be comforted…My unhappy brother never knew what his sisters had done in literature – he was not aware that they had ever published a line. We could not tell him of our efforts for fear of causing him too deep a pang of remorse for his own time mis-spent, and talents misapplied. Now he will never know. I cannot dwell longer on the subject at present – it is too painful…”

A few days later, in response to Williams’ expressions of sympathy and condolence she wrote again:

“When I looked on the noble face and forehead of my dead brother …and asked myself what had made him go ever wrong, tend ever downwards, when he had so many gifts to induce to, and aid in, an upward course, I seemed to receive an oppressive revelation of the feebleness of humanity – of the inadequacy of even genius to lead to true greatness if unaided by religion and principle. In the value, or even the reality, of these two things he would never believe till within a few days of his end; and then all at once he seemed to open his heart to a conviction of their existence and worth. The remembrance of this strange change now comforts my poor father greatly. I myself, with painful, mournful joy, heard him praying softly in his dying moments; and to the last prayer which my father offered up at his bedside he added, “Amen.” How unusual that word appeared from his lips, of course you, who did not know him, cannot conceive. Akin to this alteration was that in his feelings towards his relations – all the bitterness seemed gone… Had his sins been scarlet in their dye, I believe now they are white as wool. He is at rest, and that comforts us all. Long before he quitted this world, life had no happiness for him”

A week later Francis Grundy came to the door, asking to see the Reverend Bronte. He appeared badly shaken by Branwell’s death, and could hardly speak. When Patrick ushered him into his study Francis handed him some sheets of a draft memorial he was preparing, consisting of personal reminiscences of his friend.

“Whether these will ever be published, sir, I do not know, but I thought it might bring you some comfort to know in what high esteem your son was regarded by all those who knew him” Patrick thanked him quietly, and after Francis had departed read them in private, touched by his affection for Branwell. The last paragraph moved him greatly.

“Poor, brilliant, gay, moody, moping, wildly excitable, miserable Brontë! No history records your many struggles after the good – your wit, brilliance, attractiveness, eagerness for excitement – all the qualities which made you such ‘good company’ and dragged you down to an untimely grave.”

Charlotte was now greatly alarmed for her sister. Up until then Emily had always been the strong one they had relied upon. Her sisters, with their more precarious health, had always marvelled at her indefatigable energy and stamina. But she had never rallied after Branwell’s funeral, and by the end of October had developed a persistent cough. Strong-willed and obstinate, Emily refused to give in to her illness and continued to perform her daily chores, though it cost her much effort. In response to Ellen’s anxious enquiries, Charlotte wrote to her friend despairingly: “I feel much more uneasy about my sister than myself just now. Emily’s cold and cough are very obstinate. I fear she has pain in her chest, and I sometimes catch a shortness in her breathing when she has moved at all quickly. She looks very thin and pale. Her reserved nature occasions me great uneasiness of mind. It is useless to question her; you get no answer. It is still more useless to recommend remedies; they are never adopted…”

Later that month they received news that Mrs. Robinson was to marry Lord Scott, and Charlotte made a note in her diary: “… a worse mother a worse woman, I may say, I believe hardly exists – the more I hear of her the more deeply she revolts me. The unhappy Lady Scott is dead…she expired 2 or 3 weeks ago” In early November, after pursuing the wealthy husband of a dying woman and a mere six weeks after Branwell’s death, she finally achieved her ambition. “She is now Lady Scott – her daughters say she is in the highest spirits”

Three weeks later, Charlotte wrote to Williams again to thank him for the parcel of books from Cornhill: “To-day, as Emily appeared a little easier, I thought the North American Review would amuse her, so I read it aloud to her and Anne. As I sat between them at our quiet but now somewhat melancholy fireside, I studied the two ferocious authors. Ellis, the “man of uncommon talents, but dogged, brutal, and morose,” sat leaning back in his easy chair drawing his impeded breath as he best could, and looking, alas! piteously pale and wasted; it is not his wont to laugh, but he smiled half-amused and half in scorn as he listened. Acton was sewing, no emotion ever stirs him to loquacity, so he only smiled too, dropping at the same time a single word of calm amazement to hear his character so darkly portrayed. I wonder what the reviewer would have thought of his own sagacity could he have beheld the pair as I did. Vainly, too, might he have looked round for the masculine partner in the firm of “Bell & Co.” How I laugh in my sleeve when I read the solemn assertions that Jane Eyre was written in partnership, and that it “bears the marks of more than one mind and one sex.”

Towards the end of November she wrote to Ellen: “I told you Emily was ill, in my last letter. She has not rallied yet. She is VERY ill. I believe, if you were to see her, your impression would be that there is no hope. A more hollow, wasted, pallid aspect I have not beheld. The deep tight cough continues; the breathing after the least exertion is a rapid pant; and these symptoms are accompanied by pains in the chest and side. Her pulse, the only time she allowed it be to felt, was found to beat 115 per minute. In this state she resolutely refuses to see a doctor; she will give no explanation of her feelings, she will scarcely allow her feelings to be alluded to. Our position is, and has been for some weeks, exquisitely painful. God only knows how all this is to terminate. More than once, I have been forced boldly to regard the terrible event of her loss as possible, and even probable. But nature shrinks from such thoughts. I think Emily seems the nearest thing to my heart in the world”

* * * *

Charlotte and Anne moved the bath into the centre of the kitchen, and helped their sister climb in. They had draped sheets over the chairs on either side, forming a semi-circular tent: the steam from the hot water seemed to assist with Emily’s laboured breathing. Charlotte suppressed a gasp at the sight of her sunken ribcage, and Anne bit down on her lower lip.

“Here, let me help sponge you, Emily” said Anne gently. The latter shook her head.

“I can manage” She didn’t protest when Charlotte rinsed her hair, letting the water trickle down her back and thin shoulders.

“Tabby used to do this when we were children” said Charlotte, holding out a towel she had warmed on the range. Emily leaned on the back of a chair for support as she stepped out of the bath, and wrapped the towel around her. Once she was in a clean nightgown, Anne placed a fur tippet around her shoulders, giggling.

“How do you do, my lady?” Emily gave her an answering smile.

“I knew Ellen’s gift would come in useful one day. Shall we retire to the drawing room, ladies?”

Whilst Anne sat quietly sewing – working at petit point – Charlotte answered a letter from WS Williams: “She is a real stoic in illness: she neither seeks nor will accept sympathy. To put any questions, to offer any aid, is to annoy; she will not yield a step before pain or sickness till forced; not one of her ordinary avocations will she voluntarily renounce. You must look on and see her do what she is unfit to do, and not dare to say a word – a painful necessity for those to whom her health and existence are as precious as the life in their veins. When she is ill there seems to be no sunshine in the world for me. The tie of sister is near and dear indeed, and I think a certain harshness in her powerful and peculiar character only makes me cling to her more.”

Seated between them, Emily continued with a poem, entitled simply Stanzas To-----:

Well, some may hate, and some may scorn,

And some may quite forget thy name;

But my sad heart must ever mourn

Thy ruined hopes, thy blighted fame!

Do I despise the timid deer,

Because his limbs are fleet with fear?

Or, would I mock the wolf’s death-howl,

Because his form is gaunt and foul?

Or, hear with joy the leveret’s cry,

Because it cannot bravely die?

No! Then above his memory

Let Pity’s heart as tender be;

Say, “Earth, lie lightly on that breast,

And, kind Heaven, grant that spirit rest!

In response to Charlotte’s anxieties, Williams suggested homeopathy, to which Charlotte replied:

“..I put your most friendly letter into Emily’s hands as soon as I had myself perused it, taking care, however, not to say a word in favour of homœopathy – that would not have answered. It is best usually to leave her to form her own judgment, and especially not to advocate the side you wish her to favour; if you do, she is sure to lean in the opposite direction, and ten to one will argue herself into non-compliance…After reading your letter she said, “Mr. Williams’s intention was kind and good, but he was under a delusion: Homœopathy was only another form of quackery.”

By December she was again writing to Williams:

“I can give no favourable report of Emily’s state. My father is very despondent about her… Would that my sister added to her many great qualities the humble one of tractability! …I know it would be useless to consult Drs. Elliotson or Forbes: my sister would not see the most skilful physician in England if he were brought to her just now, nor would she follow his prescription.”

They received further reviews of their novels in the periodicals sent by WS Williams, and Anne and Charlotte read them aloud to Emily. One critic wrote of Wuthering Heights that ‘It ought to be banished from refined society…The whole tone of the book smacks of lowness.’ Emily’s lip curled with scorn, but she refrained from comment. Charlotte then read out a more favourable review – the first of its kind – in the hope of cheering her “If the rank of a work of fiction is to depend solely on its naked imaginative power, then this is one of the greatest novels in the language”, but Emily no longer appeared to be listening, and was gazing out of the window listlessly. She had not been outdoors since Branwell’s death and she now suddenly said, in a hoarse croak

“I should very much like a moonlight saunter on the moors” Her sisters stared at each other, aghast. Emily was far too ill to venture outdoors, and in such weather it would be madness.

“You’ll catch your death in that bitter north-east wind” murmured Anne helplessly.

“Humour her” whispered Charlotte, as Emily obstinately struggled into her woollen cloak “Only as far as the garden” Emily could not walk further than the wicket gate, with both of them supporting her emaciated frame between them.

“Branwell, do you remember when we used to play hide-and-seek amongst the tombstones?” asked Emily. They had not the heart to tell her that their brother had been laid to rest under the church aisle, but let her persist in her sad delusion. A gust of wind whipped her hair about her face, and her sisters shivered in the cold, but Emily seemed to glory in it. A strange light shone in her eyes. “Nelly, I was up walking by Penistone crags, and saw smoke issuing from a fissure in the rocks. They are all beneath the ground, sitting down to dinner, as calm as you please”

“Poor darling. She is talking to a character in Wuthering Heights” murmured Charlotte to Anne. Emily leaned over the gate, and spoke into the wind.

“Branni, if you must twist and wind about so, leave a trail of breadcrumbs so I can follow you” They eventually persuaded her to go back inside. As Emily climbed the stairs to her room – declining their assistance - Charlotte followed her sister’s laboured progress with anxious eyes.

* * * *

Last night I dreamt I was on the moors. Before me stood a great standing stone, and in its centre a door - a glowing rectangle of golden light. I walked forward joyfully, certain I had at long last found the entrance to that other world…. I must attempt to describe something of my present state of mind to console my sisters who are so despondent and downcast, as I know that I must leave them soon. Since that conversation with Branwell, I have examined my faith, and found it to hold strong. I am confident of the soul’s transcendence of its mortal bounds. She thought of Keats’s immortal lines in Ode to a Nightingale as he lay dying of consumption:

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Emily picked up a pen and began to compose a poem. After each stanza there was a long pause as she struggled for the words to express her thoughts.

“No coward soul is mine,

No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere;

Her lungs ached with each drawn breath, but she continued to scrawl. The pen scratched across the paper – the words coming now so rapidly there was no time to blot the ink:

Vain are the thousand creeds

That move men’s hearts: unutterably vain;

Worthless as withered weeds,

Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

She looked up briefly as Anne appeared in the doorway. “Emily, I have brought you some bran tea – won’t you take a drop? It might relieve your chest somewhat” she continued timidly. Emily shook her head.

“I have no need of such remedies” Her voice was hoarse and rasping. “Water, if you must” she croaked, perceiving that her younger sister was close to tears. Charlotte came up behind Anne and took the pen gently from Emily’s attenuated fingers.

“You must rest, Emily” She laid another shawl around Emily’s thin shoulders. As soon as she had left the room, Emily picked up her pen and resumed writing.

“What is she doing?” whispered Anne, who hung back on the landing.

“I believe she is composing a poem” replied Charlotte.

“Why will she not consent to move into our room? It is warmer” After their aunt had died Charlotte and Anne had occupied her room, which was not only larger but also benefited from a fireplace. Emily had insisted on remaining in the tiny boxroom, which was where she did all her writing. In the winter it was freezing cold, with no fireplace, and faced east, overlooking the graveyard. “Try her once more, Charlotte” pleaded Anne.

“It is no use. She will not be persuaded – she only becomes annoyed if I persist. I must go and attend to Papa now, but will look in on her again by and by”

Tabby’s maternal ministrations proved more efficacious than any of the doctor’s remedies. She smoothed the hair away from Emily’s forehead with her gnarled and swollen fingers, speaking softly.

“There, there, God bless thee, my treasure. Only close your eyes and Tabby shall tell you a tale. Once upon a moonlit night, deep in the Fairy Glen …”

Emily’s rapid decline was harrowing to witness. They were by now praying that the soul’s earthly union with the flesh might be at last be dissolved, and find release. By mid-December, she was gasping for breath, and yet she still insisted on feeding the dogs. By Tuesday 19th Emily dressed herself as usual though with difficulty, the comb dropping from her nerveless fingers. She made her way downstairs, and took up her usual occupations in the parlour. She finally whispered “If you will send for a doctor, I will see him now” About two o’clock she tried to rise from the sofa, but lacked the strength to raise herself.

On December 25th Charlotte wrote: “…The details of her illness are deep-branded in my memory, but to dwell on them, either in thought or narrative, is not in my power. Never in all her life had she lingered over any task that lay before her, and she did not linger now. She sank rapidly. She made haste to leave us. Yet, while physically she perished, mentally she grew stronger than we had yet known her. Day by day, when I saw with what a front she met suffering, I looked on her with an anguish of wonder and love. I have seen nothing like it; but, indeed, I have never seen her parallel in anything. Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her nature stood alone. The awful point was, that while full of ruth for others, on herself she had no pity; the spirit was inexorable to the flesh; from the trembling hand, the unnerved limbs, the faded eyes, the same service was exacted as they had rendered in health. To stand by and witness this, and not dare to remonstrate, was a pain no words can render. Two cruel months of hope and fear passed painfully by, and the day came at last when the terrors and pains of death were to be undergone by this treasure, which had grown dearer and dearer to our hearts as it wasted before our eyes... We have laid her cherished head under the church aisle beside my mother’s, my two sisters’ – dead long ago – and my poor, hapless brother’s. As we followed the coffin to the grave, we were joined by Keeper, Emily’s faithful bull-dog. He walked alongside the mourners into the church, and stayed quietly there in the pew at our feet all the time that the burial service was being read. When he came home, he lay down at Emily’s chamber door, and howled pitifully for many days.”

After her funeral they found Emily’s last poem, which brought their father some comfort:

No coward soul is mine,

No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere;

I see heaven’s glories shine,

And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God, within my breast,

Almighty, ever-present Deity!

Life, that in me has rest,

As I – undying life – have power in Thee.

Vain are the thousand creeds

That move men’s hearts: unutterably vain;

Worthless as withered weeds,

Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one

Holding so fast by thine infinity;

So surely anchored on

The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love

Thy spirit animates eternal years,

Pervades and broods above,

Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears

Though earth and man were gone,

And suns and universes ceased to be,

And Thou wert left alone,

Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death,

No atom that his might could render void;

Thou – THOU art Being and Breath,

And what THOU art may never be destroyed.

Chapter Nine – 1849 - 1852

John Brown was seated in the White Lion, in earnest discussion with Robert Tunstall, a newly initiated member of the Masonic lodge. Still reeling from the shock of Branwell’s death, he was quietly remonstrating with his companion.

“All I know is, if that were my lad, I’d not rest easy in my bed unless I’d had the body exhumed, I wouldn’t have let the matter rest…”

“But you’ve no proof, John. The law comes down very hard on a man for slandering another’s good name. You’ve come to me for advice. If you can tell me, in your own words, what brought about his decline then we’ll go over your suspicions - which may prove groundless” He wrote John Brown’s Testimony - To Whomsoever It May Concern across the top of a sheet of paper and dated it. “Start at the beginning, and omit no particulars which might be relevant”

“People assume that because I’m a stonemason and grave-digger I’ve no learning. But I’d have them know I’m also the sexton of St Michael’s church and Worshipful Master at the Masonic Lodge.” Robert nodded impatiently.

“Yes, we know all that”

“Aye, well I want it down on record I can read as well as the next man. In fact it was young Patrick who put me in the way of reading. After hearing him rave on about famous writers and “men of letters” I joined the circulating library at Keighley not long after he did. I never had his way with words, nor his wild fancies, but I could appreciate a line or two from Shakespeare. When he were just a young ‘un he’d hang about in the kirkyard, pressing me for yarns about highwaymen, hauntings and such like. The more fearsome the tale the more he delighted in it. If I sometimes used language not fit for one of his tender years, then I’m sorry for it, not thinking any harm thereon”

“I think we can safely omit the childhood anecdotes, as having little bearing on the matter at hand”

“You said to start at the beginning!” retorted John indignantly “You can be a right pompous ass and no mistake about it: you never made it to the Bar, you’re naught but a solicitor’s clerk. And I’ve attained a higher degree than you in the Lodge, and don’t you forget it!” Robert gave him a moment to recover his equanimity. John downed the contents of his tankard and continued.

“And there’s another thing which counted against him – why wasn’t he sent to school like his sisters? I don’t the doubt the Minister were quite capable of educating the lad at home, but what I’m getting at is that the schools the Misses Bronte attended was where they got their notions of…..” He struggled for words.

“Application, discipline..” suggested Robert.

“Aye, that’s it. Now lasses don’t need much discipline to my mind: a raised voice is enough to stop them misbehaving on most occasions, but boys is a different kettle of fish. If young Patrick had had the goad of a birch rod at his back and the company of other young lads his own class and age, it might have helped. I don’t know, that’s my opinion any road. Considering the old man doted on his son, mebbe he should have spent more money on his education and less on that of his sisters. He had real talents as an artist and the reason he didn’t go through with the Academy was not for want of trying, but because he saw there were others better than himself and thought he weren’t good enough. He told me that hisself, and it shows he weren’t blinded by vanity or had notions above his station. He were summat down in the mouth for a bit, then picked himself up and tried to make a living as a portrait painter. Rumour was he fell in with a bad lot whilst he was lodging in Bradford, but nothing could be further from the truth. They were all educated young fellers – poets, artists and writers – and he looked up to Leyland, the best sculptor in these parts and already making a name for hisself. We all thought young Patrick would succeed, but no-one ever gave him a chance”

“It’s very sad” commented Robert “But we know that he also had literary ambitions. His verses have been published in the local papers”

“I thought it passing strange that when the young ladies had their book of verses published his weren’t included. He just laughed it off and said Miss Charlotte never asked him, and by that time she weren’t speaking to him overmuch on account of his drinking. But I saw some of his own poems for they were published in the Halifax Guardian – and they were just as good as Mr. Shelley’s or Lord Byron’s, if you ask me. There weren’t much to tell between ‘em, all long rambling epics, studies of nature, the moon and stars and suchlike, musings on mournful topics, enough to make a body weep and sigh. Any road, they were as good as anything his sisters wrote, and they should have included him. I’ve often thought mebbe that preyed on his mind, and made him feel shut out” Robert had written a few more sentences, and now waited, his pen poised.

“He started spending more time around the inns and taverns in Halifax, wherever he still had credit, and who can blame ‘un? The wicked things that were said about him were not true: I don’t deny he ran up debts with the landlord of The Old Cock and Mrs Sugden of The Talbot from time to time, but that’s because he had no money of his own and the old man kept him on a tight rein. The reason he was in debt was not so much over-indulgence – why, I could drink him under the table any day of the week - but because he was too generous for his own good. It was drinks all round. Young Patrick had a fine open nature and I liked the lad. Many a time we were holed up together in the Black Bull or King’s Arms, drinking to his Majesty’s health, and I got to know him well. And he was good company – always game for a laugh and a rare young ape. I never led the lad astray as Miss Charlotte seemed to think: she was allus civil to my face, but the cold looks she gave me told a different story. In fact I could have told them a lot about their brother they didn’t know, but will hold my tongue out for respect for his memory, and for the right Reverend Bronte. But if you’re writing this down, I want it known that I never touched opium or laudanum – that I declined when Master Branwell offered me it one evening in Liverpool, when he were afflicted wi’ summat or other, spasms, after that bad business with the Jezebel up at Thorp Green. Women can be downright cruel, and don’t I knows it. My own missus is no saint, wi’ a tongue that can flay the hide off a calf, and if I betakes myself off for a quiet drink, what man alive would blame me?”

“Nobody is blaming you, John”

“And if I were such a bad influence, then tell me why the vicar allowed me to accompany his son on a trip to Liverpool. The old man positively encouraged it, because I’m a respectable married man and he well knew I were a “steadying influence” on young Patrick – his own words – write that down. Would he have allowed his son to go off gadding about in the company of a known reprobate? You tell me that. Would he, now? No, he would not, and I kept an eye on the lad, made sure he came to no harm”

“You are not being arraigned in a court of law here” pointed out Robert patiently “so you do not need to justify your actions to me. What I am interested in hearing about is when Mr. Nicholls came to lodge with you at the sexton’s cottage, and what you have told me about his procuring spirits and laudanum to Branwell’s detriment, and what part it might have played – might, I repeat, have played in his demise”

“Mr. Nicholls arrived in the parish about three years ago and lodged under our roof. I never took to him - he was one of them sorts who’s civil to your face, but allus thinking mealy-mouthed thoughts which he kept to hisself. I pegged him for an ambitious upstart with an eye to the main chance: there’s nothing he’d like better than to have the comfortable living Mr. Bronte enjoys - to step into his shoes, like. But then what man in his position wouldn’t, so I thought no more of it. Young Patrick were always making fun of him, and Miss Emily joined in, so he never liked those two right from the start. But he were careful to keep in with the Minister, and he was allus snooping about up at the parsonage where he’s no business to be”

“How do you know that?”

“Master Branwell told me hisself, said he annoyed his sisters. Miss Anne kept out of his way, and Miss Emily ignored him altogether. When he saw he weren’t getting anywhere with the younger two, he started making up to Miss Charlotte, who has no liking for him neither but knows how to be civil. I will say here that my lass Martha has worked up at the parsonage for many years, and she told me “I hate him, Father. I like nothing about him. He’s false, slippery as a eel, and I don’t trust him” Now, it’s not like my Martha to take on so about a man of the church, but I assumed he might have tried something on with her, so I told her “If he gives you any trouble of that nature, lass, let me know and I’ll knock his teeth into the back of his head, so help me God” And I would have done too, but Martha said “No, it’s not that. He don’t even like women I’m sure on it, he’s just a regular sly-boots and he looks daggers when he thinks no-one can see him” John Brown sat back in his chair with an air of triumph, his arms folded across his chest.

“But that doesn’t prove anything, John. A man cannot always be popular with the ladies. This is all hearsay…” John leaned forward, and lowered his voice.

“Well, that got me to thinking, so I hailed Tabby one day and asked her what her opinion of that gentleman might be. She told me that after Master Branwell’s funeral she came across a shocking sight. Miss Emily launched a fierce attack on Mr. Nicholls: “What have you done to my brother? What have you done?” Mr. Nicholls was stunned and trying to get away from her, but she had him by the collar and was making as if she’d attack him. Mr. Nicholls left the parsonage, and never went near Miss Emily after that. I asked Tabby what she made of it, and she said it shocked her summat awful to see Miss Emily so wild, but put it down to grief. Her mind must have been wandering, what with grieving for her brother and she weren’t well either. When Master Branwell were in a bad way wi’ the shakes, Martha said his bedchamber were a disgrace and she weren’t going in there to clean up after him. Refused point-blank, so it was Miss Emily who changed his bedlinen and cared for him towards the end. Aye, she were a rare lass and I liked ‘un too…”

“Well, then, couldn’t it have been as the servant suggested – that his sister was deranged from grief at her brother’s tragic and untimely demise? Bereavement can affect people in different ways, and you said she was fond of him”

“If you’re asking me, I’m not so sure and I got no sleep that night. I’ve bin thinking on it and I talked it over with the Missus before coming to you. If there’s been foul play of some kind, then it wouldn’t surprise me if that Irish curate weren’t somehow at the bottom of it. He had no liking for young Patrick and he had plenty of opportunity, allus sneaking about the parsonage when the Reverend was out or shut up in his study. Arsenic – now there’s another horrible possibility – they say you can’t detect it when it’s added to food, and many a poor man’s been poisoned at his own table by a jealous wife. I’ve been reading up on poisons and there’s another called anty summat or other”

“Antimony is colourless, odourless, tasteless and easily dissolved in water, inexpensive to obtain, and two grains would constitute a fatal dose. An overdose of laudanum would have the same effect” said Robert thoughtfully.

“That is what I’m getting at, man! I had my suspicions, and on the death certificate it was recorded he died of chronic bronchitis and marasmus. I looked it up in a medical dictionary and it didn’t seem to mean anything – wasting away when there is no “ascertainable cause”. And then, poor Miss Emily falls ill. And she were the hardiest of the lot, saving the Minister. Do you not think it strange the sister should die within the space of three months? That’s when Mary, my missus, pipes up and says “There’s summat not right here, John” And Miss Emily had insulted him to his face, mark you, accused him outright of having done something to her brother. And he’s a man who bears grudges. Mary served up his dinner cold one night, on account of him being late, and you should have seen the flaysome looks he gave her”

“Hearsay, John, mere conjecture. We know the doctor recorded tubercular consumption as the cause of Miss Bronte’s death. It runs in the family, does it not?”

“Aye, but what if it were poison what brought on the symptoms? She might have died a few years hence, poor lass, but so soon after the brother? What if the doctor got it wrong because it was already in his mind that she were consumptive, and the black-hearted bastard’s got away wi’ it?”

“Keep your voice down! What you have said tonight has raised a few doubts in my own mind. But we must tread cautiously. I need to research the effects of these poisons further, and whether Nicholls had the means and the motive. Though the motive is still obscure”

“That’s why I came to you. Without proof, I could say naught for fear of Mr. Nicholls bringing a slander suit against me. But the missus says Miss Anne and Miss Charlotte, even the Minister hisself, may be in danger. Are we to stand by and do nothing?”

“If there is anything in this, then the Reverend Bronte may be at most risk. We must bide our time and in the meantime, John, keep your eyes and ears open”

* * *

More reviews arrived in the post from their publishers, including an article that had appeared in the Quarterly Review. The reviewer, a Miss Rigby, described Emily’s novel as ‘too odiously and abominably pagan to be palatable to the most vitiated class of English readers.’ Charlotte crumpled the magazine and threw it across the room, speechless with anger. “They know nothing of the author. Emily was genuinely good and truly great”

“I know” said Anne soothingly “Be calm, Charlotte. God sees all. Read this one instead” She handed her sister a copy of the Cornhill Magazine: ‘Its power is absolutely Titanic; from the first page to the last it reads like the intellectual throes of a giant. It is fearful, it is true, and perhaps one of the most unpleasant books ever written: but we stand in amaze at the almost incredible fact that it was written by a slim country girl, who would have passed in a crowd as an insignificant person, and who had had little or no experience of the ways of the world. In Heathcliff, Emily Brontë has drawn the greatest villain extant, after Iago. He has no match out of Shakespeare. The Mephistopheles of Goethe’s “Faust” is a person of gentlemanly proclivities compared with Heathcliff…. But “Wuthering Heights” is a marvellous curiosity in literature. We challenge the world to produce another work in which the whole atmosphere seems so surcharged with suppressed electricity, and bound in with the blackness of tempest and desolation.’

“Yes…yes, that is so” breathed Charlotte, sinking back in her chair. Keeper gazed at her mournfully, his nose resting on Anne’s lap. The latter had taken charge of the dogs, and Keeper always looked up hopefully at Anne’s entrance, in anticipation that his beloved mistress would not be far behind.

In January 1849 Charlotte wrote in wistful tones to Williams: “…Life has become very void, and Hope has proved a strange traitor; when I shall again be able to put confidence in her suggestions, I know not: she kept whispering that Emily would not, could not die, and where is she now? Out of my reach, out of my world—torn from me…” and a week later: “Anne and I sit alone and in seclusion as you fancy us, but we do not study. Anne cannot study now, she can scarcely read; she occupies Emily’s chair; she does not get well. …When we lost Emily I thought we had drained the very dregs of our cup of trial, but now when I hear Anne cough as Emily coughed, I tremble lest there should be exquisite bitterness yet to taste. However, I must not look forwards, nor must I look backwards. Too often I feel like one crossing an abyss on a narrow plank—a glance round might quite unnerve...”

Ailing herself, Charlotte was now increasingly apprehensive about her sister, who had been delicate all her life. Patrick got in another doctor to attend Anne, a Dr. Teale, who was surgeon to Leeds General Infirmary. He arrived on the doorstep accompanied by an arctic blast of wind, his mackintosh cape caked with snow. Dr. Teale examined Anne with his stethoscope, before preceding Patrick into his study where he gave his unwelcome verdict: Anne’s lungs were inflamed, and tubercular consumption had already made considerable progress. After the doctor’s consultation, Patrick came and sat down beside Anne on the sofa, taking her fragile hand in his.

“My dear little Anne” Anne looked back at him with clear eyes.

“I am not afraid, Father”

“We knew then there was no hope” wrote Charlotte to Ellen. “She was prescribed cod liver oil and carbonate of iron, which she stopped taking as it made her sick, and is now taking Gobold’s vegetable balsam - which she thinks does her some good - pitch plasters and bran tea. Anne is the most patient invalid you can imagine, and I watch over her daily with dread in my heart. The tell-tale hectic spots on her cheeks, which were red – not with rude health – but disease, made the blood freeze in my veins..”. Thoughtful as ever, Ellen sent some cork soles in the post to insulate them against the cold seeping up from the stone-flagged floors, and a respirator to ease Anne’s breathing. Later WS Williams recommended that Dr. Forbes, physician to the Queen’s household, be consulted for Anne. Charlotte declined, whether because of the expense or because she considered the exercise futile she did not say.

In April Anne proposed a seaside sojourn. Patrick agreed that she would derive benefit from a change of air, and it was decided that Charlotte and Ellen would accompany her to Scarborough.

“Don’t fret about me” their father reassured them, brushing aside Charlotte’s anxieties. “I have Tabby and Martha. Anne shall have whatever she wants, and the sea air will do her good” Mr. Nicholls offered to stay at the parsonage with Patrick in their absence, but the latter declined the offer firmly, muttering in private to his daughters “He would be no consolation whatsoever” Before their departure Anne wrote to Ellen: “I have no horror of death: if I thought it inevitable, I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect, in the hope that you, dear Miss Nussey, would give as much of your company as you possibly could to Charlotte, and be a sister to her in my stead. But I wish it would please God to spare me, not only for papa’s and Charlotte’s sakes, but because I long to do some good in the world before I leave it. I have many schemes in my head for future practice—humble and limited indeed—but still I should not like them all to come to nothing, and myself to have lived to so little purpose.”

Charlotte engaged lodgings in Scarborough with a sea view and the two sisters left Haworth on May 24th. As he handed her into the gig, Patrick embraced his youngest child tenderly, acutely aware that he might be seeing her for the last time. They stopped overnight at York to see the Minster and do a little shopping, arriving in Scarborough the following day. With Anne wedged between the two of them and wrapped up warmly in a layer of shawls, they drove on the sands in a donkey cart for almost an hour. Anne gazed about her wonderingly, as the gulls mewed and wheeled above their heads, mesmerised by the wash of the sea and the rhythmic slap of the waves. Her rapture and delight at beholding the vast expanse of blue sea was like that of a child as she exclaimed at the iridescent jellyfish glittering in the sunlight and the tiny ridges left in the wet sand by worm-casts.

“Thank you for bringing me here. Let us come again tomorrow, and the day after. I never tire of the seaside” That evening her health declined, and her breathing became shallow. A doctor was sent for immediately but there was little he could do to impede the onset of the disease, and he left promising to return on the morrow. Anne gazed at the sunset from her window. The sky was streaked with vermilion and gave off a diffuse glow like a painter’s palette.

“Will you join me in prayer?” she asked, holding out her hands. As Ellen and Charlotte knelt by her bedside, Anne told them how much she loved them. “You have been like a mother to me” she said to Charlotte, and then turned to Ellen “I am so glad Charlotte has such a faithful loving friend, and that you will be with her” Her last whispered words to her weeping sister were “Take courage, Charlotte, take courage”. Just as she drew her last breath, both watchers were startled to see a white glowing light hovering over Anne’s head, which lingered for a moment before vanishing.

“What does it mean?” whispered Ellen. Charlotte shook her head, unable to speak.

Anne died on May 28th 1849 aged 29, and her mortal remains were laid to rest in Scarborough. Obliged to relay the sad news to her father, Charlotte informed him she had planned the funeral two days hence so there would not be time for him to attend. He wrote back immediately in poignant tones urging her to remain at the seaside – for her health’s sake - until she felt able to return home. It was not until some days later that the hotel proprietors learned that Acton Bell, author of Agnes Grey and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall had expired in one of their guest rooms.

After two weeks had passed, during which the two friends sauntered along the promenade conversing sadly about various topics, Ellen suddenly said “You must return to Haworth, Charlotte. Your father will be wondering what is keeping you”

“I know. But not yet….” pleaded Charlotte “You cannot imagine how onerous is one’s solitary existence, how dreary the daily round when one’s former companions have fled…”

“Charlotte, you must stop this morbid dwelling on death. Your father needs you now more than ever. And you will not be alone. You have two affectionate and faithful servants, and the dogs Keeper and Flossy. And I will continue to visit, as always. You have your correspondents, your writing….”

“Then just one more week, Ellen, I need another week before I am able to face going back. When I was away earning my living as a governess how I used to yearn for home: but now I dread the thought of returning to the parsonage. I will write to Papa and ask if he can spare me for one more week…” Ellen sighed. She knew that Charlotte’s father would not deny his daughter anything, as she was all he had left in the world, but her friend was only postponing the inevitable and sooner or later she must pick up the pieces and get on with her life. In the event they stayed at Scarborough for a further ten days, Patrick urging his daughter to derive as much benefit as she could from the bracing sea air, and that they all hoped to see her soon.

When she eventually returned to Haworth in late June, Charlotte was greeted joyously by both dogs, who bounded up to her in anticipation of seeing Emily and Anne – tails wagging madly. Kneeling, Charlotte put her arms around Flossy’s neck. “I’m sorry” she whispered “But I had to leave her behind in Scarborough” Then she straightened up and went forward to embrace her father in their shared grief.

* * *

“Must I go back there, Mother? I’m so afeared” Martha Brown stood in the tiny kitchen at the sexton’s cottage, confiding her terrors to her mother.

“Whisht, ye big daftie. What’s there to be afeared of? The dead cannot harm you”

“But I hear sobs coming out of the very walls, Mother” whispered Martha “It sounds like Miss Emily. And dark shadows on the landing upstairs. Strange whisperings…”

“’Tis all morbid fancy! Would you desert the Minister now when he needs you, and poor Miss Bronte, left all alone to fend for herself? They are liberal with their wages” continued her mother in a more matter-of-fact tone “and ye’ll not find another position so handy, where you can run along home any time o’ the day….”

“Please tell Miss Bronte I’m ailing, Mother” begged Martha “Just for a couple of days and ask if my sister can come and work in the kitchen alongside me, for the company” Mary looked at her daughter with some disquiet. It was not like Martha at all to be so nervous and afraid. Perhaps the parsonage was indeed haunted.

In August Patrick had an attack of bronchitis, and Tabby’s leg was ulcerated again, following a fall in the kitchen. “As Martha is also ill, it now devolves on me to nurse the entire household” a beleaguered Charlotte confided to Ellen: “But at least it keeps me occupied” Ellen sent her a bulky parcel which turned out to be a shower-bath like the one they had seen advertised in Scarborough. Martha’s mother and sister arrived to help with the domestic chores so that Charlotte’s household duties were comparatively light, and she was able to finish writing her new novel Shirley. By the end of the month her manuscript was ready to send to the publishers and George Smith suggested that a Mr. James Taylor, who was associated with the literary department as adviser, should come to Haworth in order to collect the manuscript in person.

On the anniversary of her brother’s death, Charlotte wandered into the former schoolroom where they had spent so much time as children. She picked up one of his old wooden soldiers, now covered in dust. Still clutching it in her hand, she crossed the landing and opened the door of his bedchamber, which had been left more or less untouched. Amongst their youthful writings and effusions, she discovered more recent correspondence from Branwell’s friends secreted within a clothes-press. She searched in vain for something that had been written by him, which might provide a clue as to his state of mind before he died. Most of her brother’s epistles had been accompanied by ink sketches, half playful and half in earnest, with himself as subject. She was on the point of leaving the room when she caught sight of a copy of Jane Eyre, tucked right at the very back. As she picked it up a crumpled piece of paper, which had been stuck between its pages, fluttered to the floor. It was a letter addressed to his friend Leyland dated August 1848, which for some reason had never been sent, either because he became too ill or forgot to post it. With a thudding heart she began to read her brother’s familiar scrawl.

“I have just read Charlotte’s Jane Eyre, and admire it greatly. It is far superior, both in conception and execution, to its predecessor The Professor. I hear there has been a rush for copies in America, and that the whole literary establishment is clamouring to know who is the real author. It is a great “secret” in our household (hush, hush), and Currer Bell cleaves to her incognito as the caterpillar clings to its chrysalis. But she is poised, like the butterfly, to spread her wings and soar. We are now honoured by a procession of visitors making a pilgrimage to Haworth, all admirers of that doughty governess who sprang from my sister’s imagination. It is of course well-known throughout the parish that Currer Bell is no other than the parson’s daughter, but it is to me to whom their queries must perforce be addressed, since my sisters lead such a sequestered life and I am the only one who goes out and about. Yesterday evening, a professor down from Oxford was greatly desirous of making my acquaintance at the inn. He was loud in his praise of Miss Jane Eyre – whom he seemed to think was a real character – and begged me to convey his compliments to her. I shook the old fellow by the hand and was prodigiously polite to him. “You must be very proud” he said “to be related to that great lady” I owned that I was, and one day I shall tell her so, when once I have redeemed myself in her eyes. But that is by the by…”

Charlotte stopped dead in her tracks. He had known! Branwell had known of their success, but had chosen to maintain the fiction that he was completely in the dark. Of course he would have known – with his wide circle of acquaintances in the village. How could she have been such a fool as to think she could have kept such a secret from him? How great must have been her brother’s anguish at his own relative obscurity, when their stars were rising in the literary firmament. Yet he had said nothing, he had been magnanimous in acknowledging the merits of her novel to Leyland: “one day I shall tell her so, when once I have redeemed myself in her eyes…” But he had died suddenly one month later, the words unspoken, the opportunity for reconciliation lost forever.

Charlotte was now assailed by memories of the most painful kind: of the time her brother had walked the entire distance from Haworth to Roe Head to visit her at school, clutching a bag of Tabby’s blackcurrant tarts; of their mutual collaboration and playful rivalry when they had set out to create the mirror world of Verdopolis; of the times he had entertained them all with his irrepressible spirits and wickedly funny impersonations. In latter years they had slowly drifted apart, and she had been deeply wounded by his cutting remarks. If he had only once, just once, said a kind word, her frozen heart would have instantly thawed and all the old feelings of affection for him been revived. As she clasped one of his toy soldiers in her hand, she was tortured by remorse for what had not been said, and by a sense of loss for what might have been. As the hot tears squeezed out from underneath her shut eyelids, Emily watched silently from the shadows.

Now you are thinking of our brother. You misjudged Branwell. He was better than you thought. I could whisper in your ear many things that I know and you do not. But your ears are stopped with grief, your eyes blind with tears. Do not be a prey to remorse. You are kinder than you know, for I saw you offer succour and practical aid to a young blind girl, who had been seduced and betrayed, with no-one to turn to except the parson’s daughter. In her eyes you are an angel of deliverance.

Sighing heavily, Charlotte returned to her room. Emily had left a number of unpublished poems on her death, and she found the one she sought entitled The Wanderer From The Fold:

How few, of all the hearts that loved,

Are grieving for thee now;

And why should mine to-night be moved

With such a sense of woe?

Too often thus, when left alone,

Where none my thoughts can see,

Comes back a word, a passing tone

From thy strange history.

Sometimes I seem to see thee rise,

A glorious child again;

All virtues beaming from thine eyes

That ever honoured men:

Courage and truth, a generous breast

Where sinless sunshine lay:

A being whose very presence blest

Like gladsome summer-day.

O, fairly spread thy early sail,

And fresh, and pure, and free,

Was the first impulse of the gale

Which urged life’s wave for thee!

Why did the pilot, too confiding,

Dream o’er that ocean’s foam,

And trust in Pleasure’s careless guiding

To bring his vessel home?

For well he knew what dangers frowned,

What mists would gather, dim;

What rocks and shelves, and sands lay round

Between his port and him.

The very brightness of the sun

The splendour of the main,

The wind which bore him wildly on

Should not have warned in vain.

An anxious gazer from the shore—

I marked the whitening wave,

And wept above thy fate the more

Because—I could not save.

It recks not now, when all is over:

But yet my heart will be

A mourner still, though friend and lover

Have both forgotten thee!

Like so much of Emily’s verse, the poem seemed strangely prescient, as if in some dark recess of her mind she had known what was coming. Charlotte dipped her pen into the inkwell: “I believe temptation often assails the finest manly natures; as the pecking sparrow or destructive wasp attacks the sweetest and mellowest fruit, eschewing what is sour and crude….” The act of writing seemed to comfort her, and her hand steadied as the words flowed forth, issuing from a full heart.

* * *

Shirley was published on October 26th 1849. Much to Charlotte’s chagrin, the general tenor of the reviews was that the book was well written but lacked the force and originality of Jane Eyre.

“Papa, I have been invited to stay with my publisher’s family in London” Charlotte announced over breakfast one morning “and although I have no desire to go into society, George Smith promises to introduce me to Mr. Thackeray”

“Yes, you must go, Charlotte, and then you can come back to us and tell us of all you have seen”

“You will be able to manage in my absence?”

“Of course, my dear. Only you must wrap up warmly, and take care that you do not catch a cold” The necessary arrangements were made and Charlotte departed for the metropolis at the end of November. Her hosts were kind and generous and she met Thackeray, one of her literary heroes, at a dinner party:

“On one occasion I met a party of my critics—seven of them” she informed Miss Wooler “some of them had been very bitter foes in print, but they were prodigiously civil face to face. These gentlemen seemed infinitely grander, more pompous, dashing, showy, than the few authors I saw. Mr. Thackeray, for instance, is a man of quiet, simple demeanour; he is however looked upon with some awe and even distrust. His conversation is very peculiar, too perverse to be pleasant. … I twice saw Macready act—once in Macbeth and once in Othello. I astonished a dinner-party by honestly saying I did not like him. It is the fashion to rave about his splendid acting. Anything more false and artificial, less genuinely impressive than his whole style I could scarcely have imagined. The fact is, the stage-system altogether is hollow nonsense…They comprehend nothing about tragedy or Shakespeare, and it is a failure. I said so; and by so saying produced a blank silence—a mute consternation. I was, indeed, obliged to dissent on many occasions, and to offend by dissenting… London people strike a provincial as being very much taken up with little matters about which no one out of particular town-circles cares much; they talk, too, of persons—literary men and women—whose names are scarcely heard in the country, and in whom you cannot get up an interest. I think I should scarcely like to live in London, and were I obliged to live there, I should certainly go little into company, especially I should eschew the literary coteries…”

When she returned home, she gave a lively account to her father of all she had seen and heard. He had read Agnes Grey in her absence, and had begun on Shirley.

“I was much moved by Anne’s account of being a governess in a strange household” he now said “I did not know what trials and tribulations all of you went through – I thought you were content with your positions”

“We were content with being independent and able to earn our own money, but it is not an experience I would wish to repeat” admitted Charlotte. “We learned much to our advantage and I think it made us stronger. But you will find Shirley quite different” There were passages in the book that could have been written by her friend Mary Taylor, or the author Harriet Martineau – both strong advocates of female emancipation – and she now wondered in what light these would be viewed by her conservative father. She needn’t have worried for he drew her attention to one such passage:

I believe single women should have more to do—better chances of interesting and profitable occupation than they possess now…..Look at the numerous families of girls in this neighbourhood—The brothers of these girls are every one in business or in professions; they have something to do. Their sisters have no earthly employment but household work and sewing, no earthly pleasure but an unprofitable visiting, and no hope, in all their life to come, of anything better. This stagnant state of things makes them decline in health. They are never well, and their minds and views shrink to wondrous narrowness…They scheme, they plot, they dress to ensnare husbands. The gentlemen turn them into ridicule; they don’t want them; they hold them very cheap. They say—I have heard them say it with sneering laughs many a time—the matrimonial market is overstocked. ….Men of England! look at your poor girls, many of them fading around you, dropping off in consumption or decline; or, what is worse, degenerating to sour old maids—envious, back-biting, wretched, because life is a desert to them; or, what is worst of all, reduced to strive, by scarce modest coquetry and debasing artifice, to gain that position and consideration by marriage which to celibacy is denied. Fathers! cannot you alter these things? You would wish to be proud of your daughters, and not to blush for them; then seek for them an interest and an occupation which shall raise them above the flirt, the manœuvrer, the mischief-making tale-bearer. Keep your girls’ minds narrow and fettered; they will still be a plague and a care, sometimes a disgrace to you. Cultivate them—give them scope and work; they will be your gayest companions in health, your tenderest nurses in sickness, your most faithful prop in age.

“All that you have said here is very true, Charlotte. I have never believed that children’s minds should be ‘narrow and fettered’ as your character Shirley puts it. Perhaps over time, society will change and there will be more productive roles for daughters, as well as sons” He looked wistful, and she knew he was thinking of Branwell, who had been denied a useful profession.

Upon opening yet another parcel of books sent by her Cornhill publishers, Charlotte could not help remembering happier occasions when they had all eagerly anticipated such parcels. The pleasures afforded by reading were scarcely imaginable to those who led less retired lives “Happiness quite unshared can scarcely be called happiness; it has no taste” she observed, as she threw herself into her correspondence – a poor substitute for the daily companionship of her sisters – but nevertheless something she clung to in the midst of her loneliness. Frequently she would make some excuse to go into the kitchen and speak with Tabby and Martha, thus to escape those cheerless meditations on the brevity of life, and the transience of happiness. The household seemed very solitary in the evenings as her father dined alone, as was his custom: “We are sadly cast down, but in the midst of grief my father’s faith holds strong as we approach the anniversary of my beloved sister’s death” she wrote “Papa wrote a hymn, which will be set to music in the church for Christmas” Patrick still visited his parishioners, taking himself off to distant hamlets and returning home much fatigued, as his bodily strength no longer matched his indomitable will.

Charlotte sat alone in the gathering gloom and gazed out at the grey tombstones, which stood upright and stark in the moonlight. No wonder Anne had been so insistent on spending her final hours by the sea, in rapt contemplation of the sparkling waves. Here at the parsonage, there were no “Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn”, only the graveyard with its mute, constant reminders of death. At night she was haunted by dreams of her sister Emily in which she chided her for her long absence “Why have you neglected to return to the hearth-side, why have you been gone so long?” Upon waking, the dread truth would assert itself and her sense of grief and loss would seem insupportable. “I dread the bitter blast of the north east wind, harbinger of disease and death. It howls and moans about the four walls of this rectory, and wuthers down through the chimney breast” she wrote in her journal, noting “There have been heavy squalls at sea, with ships being blown off course in gales. I am so cold, so very cold....” Another of Emily’s haunting poems, written after she had begun Wuthering Heights, seemed to echo her mood:

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,

Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,

Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover

Over the mountains, on that northern shore,

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover

Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,

From those brown hills, have melted into spring:

Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers

After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,

While the world’s tide is bearing me along;

Other desires and other hopes beset me,

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven,

No second morn has ever shone for me;

All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,

All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,

And even Despair was powerless to destroy;

Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,

Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion –

Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten

Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,

How could I seek the empty world again?

With the deaths of her brother and sisters, time had stopped at the parsonage. Nothing would ever change now. She would remain here until she died, caring for Papa. And when he died – as he inevitably must – she would be left alone with the shadows and the echoing stone walls. She buried her head in the soft folds of Emily’s cloak: it smelt of the moors, of heather and gorse, of wind and rain, damp earth and moss, of the grave….

You think altogether too much of me. Do not grieve for me. I am in a sunlit place and I am as far from you as the moon and stars from the earth. I comprehend your sorrow but dimly, as through a glass.

In the New Year Patrick showed his daughter an article which appeared in The Bradford Observer: ‘It is understood that the only daughter of the Rev P. Bronte, incumbent of Haworth is the authoress of Jane Eyre and Shirley, two of the most popular novels of the day, which have appeared under the name of Currer Bell..’

“It will soon be known all over the West Riding of Yorkshire who Currer Bell is” he said “You must prepare yourself, Charlotte” A few days later she was writing to inform Ellen: “Martha came in yesterday – puffing and blowing and much excited – ‘I’ve heard sich news’ she began – ‘What about?’ ‘Please ma’am you’ve been and written two books – the grandest books that ever was seen’ I fell into a cold sweat. Jane Eyre will be read by John Brown by Mrs Taylor and Betty – God help keep & deliver me!” Her days of obscurity were over. She went on to remark: “Mr. Grant does not seem to mind that he was caricatured as the curate called Mr. Donne in my satire Shirley, and Papa derives much pleasure from teasing him. If anything it seems to have improved his disposition. The same cannot be said of Mr. Smith, who glowers at me whenever he sees me…”

Arthur Bell Nicholls asked Patrick if he might read the passages in Shirley where the curates were lampooned: just prior to this request, Patrick had remarked in his hearing that Charlotte’s measure of a man’s worth was allied to his ability to see himself in a humorous and self-deprecatory light. Later that evening, Nicholl’s merriment seemed so forced and loud, and so totally out of character, that both Martha and her mother could not help peeping into the parlour of the sexton’s cottage to see what all the fuss was about. The following day Martha reported the scene to Charlotte, prompting the latter to observe to her friend: “Mr. Nicholls has finished reading Shirley; he is delighted with it. John Brown’s wife seriously thought he had gone wrong in the head as she heard him giving vent to roars of laughter as he sat alone, clapping his hands and stamping on the floor. He would read all the scenes about the curates aloud to Papa. He triumphed in his own character….”

Come, sister. He studies your books in order to learn how to portray himself in the most flattering light – the first step in a carefully orchestrated campaign to win your approbation. He knew of your authorship well before Papa did.

In March, Charlotte received a letter from New Zealand, which she eagerly pounced on. She had confided in her friend Mary Taylor her authorship of Jane Eyre long before she had confided in Ellen Nussey, since she set much higher store on the former’s perspicacity and judgement. Ellen was quite incapable of offering any adverse criticism of one who was her friend. Mary Taylor’s opinion of Shirley was characteristically forthright, with nothing to say respecting its literary merit or style, but highly condemnatory of the subject matter: “You are a hypocrite, and do not have the courage of your convictions. You trumpet female independence in your latest novel, yet you suffer your heroines to submit meekly to the yoke of domestic tyranny. Why must they always end in marriage?”

Charlotte was angered, not because Mary had dared to express an opinion – she had always possessed an acerbic tongue – but because she felt that Mary was judging her on a personal level, on what she happened to know about her, and not her professional skills as a writer. After all, many acclaimed authors had romance at the heart of their novels – Miss Austen being a case in point - which did not detract from their literary merit. She could have more easily tolerated such criticism from another writer such as Thackeray or Elizabeth Gaskell, but resented such remarks from one who professed to be her friend and who was moreover unqualified to offer criticism. From that very first meeting at Roe Head, as a timid 15-year-old, she had sought to defend herself from Mary’s sharp tongue: “You’re a queer little thing, aren’t you?” She had never stopped to consider the feelings of others, or that her thoughtless observations could wound. But no more. Mary Taylor could not touch her now. The latter had many gifts and accomplishments, to be sure, but tact was not of them. Whether she had made friends in New Zealand was doubtful. She did not possess the qualities needful for true and lasting friendship. From now on Ellen Nussey would be the chosen recipient of her confidences, Charlotte decided. In the event, she did not respond to Mary’s provocative outburst, and contented herself with a short note wishing her well in her new life.

In April 1850 Charlotte agreed to write an epitaph and commentary on her sisters’ writing for a new edition of their poetry. Although she was free to walk on the moors, and the dogs continued to look up expectantly whenever she put on her bonnet, Charlotte did not have the sort of robust constitution which delights in long rambles and Keeper and Flossy had to resign themselves to a short stroll about the vicinity. She had come to feel a deep affection for both dogs and valued their companionship during the interminable evenings, but more often than not it was her father who took them out for exercise. Over the next few weeks she occupied herself with setting down her thoughts and impressions of her sisters:

“One day, in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume of verse in my sister Emily’s handwriting. Of course, I was not surprised, knowing that she could and did write verse: I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me - a deep conviction that these were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women generally write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine. To my ear they had also a peculiar music - wild, melancholy, and elevating….My sister Emily was not a person of demonstrative character, nor one on the recesses of whose mind and feelings even those nearest and dearest to her could, with impunity, intrude unlicensed; it took hours to reconcile her to the discovery I had made, and days to persuade her that such poems merited publication”

The memory of their argument and Emily’s fury over what she perceived as an “unwarrantable liberty” pained her. No stranger to self-excoriation, Charlotte bit down hard on her lower lip, drawing blood. Her sister’s bitter accusations – from beyond the grave – still had the power to scald and wound. After a few moments she recovered her composure and continued:

“In Emily’s nature the extremes of vigour and simplicity seemed to meet. Under an unsophisticated culture, inartificial tastes, and an unpretending outside, lay a secret power and fire that might have informed the brain and kindled the veins of a hero; but she had no worldly wisdom; her powers were unadapted to the practical business of life; she would fail to defend her most manifest rights, to consult her most legitimate advantage. An interpreter ought always to have stood between her and the world. Her will was not very flexible, and it generally opposed her interest. Her temper was magnanimous, but warm and sudden; her spirit altogether unbending…..My sister’s disposition was not naturally gregarious; circumstances favoured and fostered her tendency to seclusion; except to go to church or take a walk on the hills, she rarely crossed the threshold of home”

Charlotte paused to collect her thoughts. Having provided sufficient background, she now needed to offer a justification and defence against the myriad denunciations that had been levelled at her sister by uncomprehending reviewers and readers. Having immersed herself in the claustrophobic world of Wuthering Heights, she re-read the passage describing Heathcliff’s frenzy and grief, following Cathy’s death – as observed by Nelly Dean: ‘He dashed his head against the knotted trunk; and, lifting up his eyes, howled, not like a man, but like a savage beast being goaded to death with knives and spears’ Charlotte gave an involuntary shudder, and continued with her exposition of the inner workings of Emily’s mind:

“Her imagination, which was a spirit more sombre than sunny, more powerful than sportive, found in such traits material whence it wrought creations like Heathcliff, like Earnshaw, like Catherine. Having formed these beings, she did not know what she had done….If it was complained that the mere hearing of certain vivid and fearful scenes banished sleep by night, and disturbed mental peace by day, Ellis Bell would wonder what was meant, and suspect the complainant of affectation. Had she but lived, her mind would of itself have grown like a strong tree, loftier, straighter, wider-spreading, and its matured fruits would have attained a mellower ripeness and sunnier bloom; but on that mind time and experience alone could work: to the influence of other intellects it was not amenable...Whether it is right or advisable to create beings like Heathcliff, I do not know: I scarcely think it is. But this I know: the writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master - something that, at times, strangely wills and works for itself.”

If it were not for Emily, she reflected, she and Branwell might never have fallen out. His excessive drinking was something she could easily have forgiven – a pardonable and commonplace weakness – but they had fought for possession of Emily’s mind and soul. And when that citadel had proved to be unassailable, they had become rivals for her affection and approval, scrapping like dogs over a bone. To begin with Emily had remained aloof – saddened by their growing estrangement – then, by imperceptible degrees she had gravitated towards Branwell, distancing herself from Charlotte. At the time, Charlotte had not been able to forgive her brother for taking Emily from her. But now she was older and wiser. None of this manoeuvring had been conscious, she realised. Emily was who she was – unique, and like all true geniuses, ultimately unknowable. And Branwell was who he was – Pied Piper and Master of Revels - weaving impossible dreams about their heads. We wove a web in childhood, the threads which bound us together now all unravelled….Charlotte sighed, and with a conscious effort of will endeavoured to impose some discipline on her errant thoughts, returning to the task in hand. Of Anne’s second novel The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, she observed:

“..it hardly appears to me desirable to preserve. The choice of subject was an entire mistake. Nothing less congruous with the writer’s nature could be conceived. The motives which dictated this choice were pure, but, I think, slightly morbid. She had, in the course of her life, been called on to contemplate, near at hand, and for a long time, the terrible effects of talents misused and faculties abused: hers was naturally a sensitive, reserved, and dejected nature; what she saw sank very deeply into her mind; it did her harm. She brooded over it till she believed it to be a duty to reproduce every detail (of course with fictitious characters, incidents, and situations), as a warning to others…”

Another voice, mute but just as powerful, now rose up in rebellious counterpoint to join with hers:

How can you have the temerity to pronounce judgement on Anne’s work, and declare it is not “desirable to preserve?” You never understood my sister, you underestimated her abilities and her fortitude. Nor did she look forward to death, as you once intimated: she had the patience and the strength to bear what could not be avoided.

The candle flame guttered, then went out. Puzzled, as there was no draught, Charlotte trimmed the wick and re-lit it. The flame flickered wildly, before going out again. Then she remembered Martha complaining of something similar “The candle keeps going out, Miss….” Charlotte peered into the gloom: there appeared to be a strange mist forming by the mantelpiece. No, no, it can’t be, she told herself, just a trick of the light. She deliberately avoided looking at the spot where she thought she had seen the mist, then risked another quick glance. The mist now seemed to have taken on a more solid shape, and glowed with a dim radiance. Unnerved, Charlotte gathered up her things and rushed from the parlour, closing the door firmly behind her.

* * *

Patrick had at last made some headway with his petition for an improved water supply, and towards the end of April an inspector from the General Board of Health, a Mr. Benjamin Babbage, arrived. His findings confirmed the unusually high mortality rate in Haworth, and – taking his lead from Patrick – he recommended a piped water supply, the installation of sewers, and at least one privy for every three households.

“And there must be no further interments in the church yard” added Patrick. “Do not forget that in your report: you have seen for yourself how overcrowded it is”

“I understand your concerns, sir” replied the inspector, who was not unsympathetic. “Your argument is that the water supply may be tainted, resulting in disease and death for those who live nearby. I am very sorry for the bereavements you have suffered” he added. Patrick looked exasperated.

“It is not solely on my own account that I have petitioned for these improvements: as Minister of this parish I would be remiss in my duty if I did not seek to ameliorate conditions for my parishioners, who continue to suffer and die needlessly…”

“Indeed, it vastly redounds to your credit that you should expend so much effort on their behalf” murmured Babbage, anxious to get away from the hectoring old man. “I will let you know the outcome of my report as soon the Board has had an opportunity to consider my recommendations”

In June Charlotte visited London again – staying with the Smiths, as before. She visited the Ladies Gallery at the House of Commons and Zoological Gardens in Regents Park, sorely missing Anne’s companionship. She also met her childhood hero the Duke of Wellington and spoke to Thackeray after one of his lectures, conscious that her father would be deeply interested in her impressions of both men. Thackeray’s latest novel Pendennis had just been published, and she expressed her admiration for his talent as a writer. George Smith even persuaded her to get her portrait painted by the celebrated Richmond. All in all she was gone for five weeks, and her arrival back in Haworth coincided with the arrival of her new portrait, which took pride of place over the mantelpiece in the parlour, along with the portrait of Wellington she had commissioned.

“I think it very becoming, my dear” commented her proud father: Branwell’s less flattering family portrait, painted when he was eighteen, was removed and placed upstairs in Patrick’s room, along with the medallion likeness of his son he had privately obtained from Leyland, now one of his most treasured mementos.

“We need more lighting at the parsonage” said Charlotte, whose dread of dark corners where the light did not penetrate reasserted itself when she was alone in the evenings. “Candles are less reliable than oil lamps, and we can afford the expense now, Papa”

“It does not do to strain your eyes in poor light” agreed Patrick, who rarely objected to anything his daughter proposed.

There was much correspondence to catch up on, and in reply to a letter from Miss Wooler enquiring about her recent sojourn in the capital, Charlotte wrote: “… I only went out once to dinner, and was once present at an evening party... As far as I can see, indiscriminate visiting tends only to a waste of time and a vulgarising of character … I sometimes hear small fragments of gossip which amuse me. Somebody professes to have authority for saying that ‘When Miss Brontë was in London she neglected to attend divine service on the Sabbath, and in the week spent her time in going about to balls, theatres, and operas.”

Charlotte was invited to stay with the Kay Shuttleworths at Gawthorpe Hall, a prominent family in the district who had been most importunate since her authorship of Jane Eyre had become common knowledge. She politely declined the invitation, only to receive another urging her to accompany them on a tour of the Lake District where they had another home.

“They have invited me to stay with them in the Lake District” sighed Charlotte “I am weary of society – what do you think, Papa? They have included you in their invitation”

“You must do whatever you wish, my dear” responded Patrick. “But I cannot leave my duties here” He had recently written to the General Board of Health, pointing out that nothing had yet been done to implement the recommendations contained in the Babbage Report. A public meeting had been called, at which some of the most influential residents in the district had objected strongly - not wishing to pay the new water rate which would have to be imposed to pay for the improvements - much to Patrick’s frustration.

When the Kay Shuttleworths pressed their suit, by promising to introduce her to Elizabeth Gaskell, Charlotte accepted their invitation. Mrs.Gaskell’s maternal solicitude and benevolent concern for her well being struck a responsive chord in Charlotte, and she was soon confiding in the older woman, pouring out her all her anxieties and fears. For her part, Mrs Gaskell viewed Charlotte with the utmost sympathy as one who had lost her mother and her two older sisters at an early age, followed by the more recent tragic deaths of her brother and remaining sisters. Her compassion had first been awakened upon reading the fictionalised account in Jane Eyre of Lowood - based on the tyrannical regime at Cowan Bridge - where Charlotte and Emily had been sent as young children. Charlotte was so childlike in stature and seemed so vulnerable that all her protective instincts were aroused.

“It is so very lonely at the parsonage” confessed Charlotte “and I am wont to sink into such a despondency of spirits, when I dwell on the past…”

“You must cultivate outside interests” advised Mrs Gaskell, looking upon her kindly. “The very worst thing you can do is to brood and to dwell overmuch on the past”

“I have endeavoured to cultivate new interests through my publisher George Smith, who is very kind, but I have so little confidence in putting myself forward, and such limited experience of the literati...”

“But you are a celebrated author in your own right” insisted Mrs. Gaskell “You must not be intimidated by critics, who are a breed apart and for the most part failed writers. The remedy is work. Have you an idea for a new novel?” Charlotte hesitantly outlined her idea for a re-worked version of The Professor to be entitled Villette, based on her experiences at the Pensionnat Heger in Brussels.

“Excellent” said Mrs. Gaskell approvingly “I shall look forward to reading it”

“I marvel that you are able to write in the midst of so many pressing domestic concerns” said Charlotte to her new friend, who was surrounded by noisy children clamouring for her attention. “Indeed I am full of admiration, for I require absolute peace and quiet before I am able to collect my thoughts”

“The secret is to have a supportive and loyal Helpmeet” said Mrs. Gaskell, with a fond glance in her husband’s direction. “I contrive to do most of my writing in the evenings, of course, and I should very much like your opinion of a novel I have just begun called Cranford, but that can wait. Now, I have organised a picnic in your honour, and whilst you are here you really must call on Miss Harriet Martineau, who lives in a house she built herself called The Knoll at Ambleside….”

“Oh! Deerbrook was one of my favourite books whilst I was teaching” exclaimed Charlotte “I should love to meet her”

“I warn you, she is a formidable character and will lecture you on all the burning social topics of the day. She manages to support herself entirely by her writing, and knows many influential people” The upshot of this was that Charlotte was invited for a short stay at The Knoll, from whence she intended to go on to the Nusseys. She found that Miss Martineau was indeed a formidable lady with decided opinions, which did not always sit easily with Charlotte. She was nevertheless impressed by her hostess’s boundless energy and industry: she belonged to that hardy breed who thought nothing of rising at 5am and taking herself off for a strenuous walk before settling down to a strict routine of writing.

“Self-discipline is the answer to most social evils” she declared. “Charitable relief for the poor is self-defeating and ill-advised when tackling issues such as poverty or alcohol consumption.” Charlotte was confused by her dogmatic beliefs, which were of a secular nature and tended towards atheism, with an emphasis on rational scientific thought and self-reliance. “I do not believe in a hereafter based on a system of rewards and punishments, and salvation through Christ, who was not the son of God but simply a good human whose example we should endeavour to follow, but not worship” Charlotte nodded uneasily. As the dutiful daughter of an Anglican Minister she found it difficult to reconcile Miss Martineau’s rationalist philosophy with her own respect for her father’s deeply held religious principles. And as a non-conformist Unitarian and Whig supporter, Harriet championed the Poor Law Amendment Act that Patrick thought so iniquitous. They were, however, able to agree on the Abolitionist movement, which they both fully endorsed, and on the need for a more rigorous system of education for females.

By the end of her stay Charlotte was mentally exhausted, and it was with a measure of relief that she set off for Brookroyd. She was warmly welcomed by the Nusseys as one of the family, and she and Ellen resumed their easy companionship.

“Was she so very awful?” asked Ellen, as they sat in front of her dressing table that evening. “My father says that Evolutionisn is a wicked doctrine, which ought to be opposed by all right-thinking people”

“I was completely bewildered by her references to Mr. Charles Darwin, as by this time I had a thundering headache” admitted Charlotte “I believe her to be well-intentioned and endowed with a kind heart, but I simply could not keep up with all her talk of the latest scientific discoveries. Papa would have found it interesting, I suppose. The worst was when she wished to conduct a scientific experiment on me”

“What sort of experiment?” asked Ellen, startled. She paused in the act of brushing her hair. Charlotte now told her of Harriet’s obsessive interest in mesmerism, and how the experiment had to be suddenly halted due to Charlotte’s terror. “Why did you cry out? Did it hurt?”

“No, but you know I have always had a nervous disposition when it comes to things of that nature” Ellen nodded. They had known each other since they were aged 15, and Charlotte was easily frightened by supernatural phenomena. When the girls told each other ghost stories in the dormitories at night, Charlotte had hidden beneath her blankets. The latter hesitated, wondering whether she should tell her friend of what she had heard late at night: sobbing coming from Emily’s bedroom, footsteps, sounds of a piano playing, shadowy figures passing across the landing and glimpsed from the corner of her eye. She had begun to think the parsonage was haunted, and it was one of the reasons she dreaded going back. She decided not to say anything as her friend would simply dismiss her fears as the product of an overly-sensitive and morbid imagination. Ellen was completely the opposite in temperament to her, being blessed with a placid and down-to-earth nature that did not readily comprehend the night terrors Charlotte was prey to.

“You are so like Anne in many respects” Charlotte now said sadly. “She was sweet-tempered and easy to converse with - it is no wonder the Robinson girls were so fond of her”. Anne had never raised her voice in argument and had been so biddable, unlike the headstrong Emily. And yet, you might search the world over and never find Emily’s equal...

“Your new hairstyle is so much more flattering than the old ringleted style” interposed Ellen tactfully, in an attempt to distract her from depressing thoughts.

“Do you think so? At least I no longer have need of the crimping tongs” Charlotte’s hair was now parted in the centre and swept into a chignon at the back, which had the effect of disguising her rather crooked nose and protruding forehead.

“Oh yes. I think it most becoming”

“That is what Papa said – oh, I must tell you something – you will never guess!” This was always the prelude to a piece of juicy gossip, and Ellen widened her eyes.

“What? Quick, tell me before we go down to dinner”

“Do you remember I told you about a Mr. James Taylor, managing clerk with my publishers?” Ellen nodded “Well, he is being sent to Bombay to look after the firm’s business interests. The last time he was in Haworth to collect my manuscript Papa and I were obliged to entertain him, and I suppose he must have taken a fancy to me, for a few days later I was most astonished to receive a letter in the post in which was contained a proposal of marriage!”

“Good heavens, but he hardly knows you! I suppose he wants you to accompany him to India – you have not accepted, surely?”

“Of course not, though surprisingly Papa had no objections to him” She omitted to mention that Mr. Taylor, with his sandy-coloured hair and slight stature, bore a striking resemblance to Branwell, which had unsettled her. “I have declined his offer, but he has expressed a desire to enter into correspondence with me whilst he is abroad…”

“Well, there can be no harm in that” began Ellen, as the gong for dinner sounded. “Come, we will discuss this later”

In the summer of 1851 Charlotte was invited to London again, and visited the Great Exhibition at Crystal Palace in Hyde Park five times. She forced herself to sit through numerous demonstrations and lectures, absorbing as much information as she could, for her father’s benefit more than her own: he was unable to travel, but his mind was as alert as ever and he took a lively interest in all that was going on in the capital. Apart from the newspapers, she was now his chief conduit to the wider world outside Haworth. At the end of a frenetic month during which she attended the Adelphi Theatre in the Strand and more lectures by Thackeray, she was suffering from nausea, headaches and fatigue. Patrick was extremely anxious for her health and urged her to return home.

Once back at the parsonage Charlotte settled down to some serious writing, and with Mrs Gaskell’s and Miss Martineau’s example before her, she resumed work on Villette. Her correspondence with Constantin Heger had ceased some time ago, and she now struggled to recall those two years spent in Brussels – the first with Emily. They had been inseparable in those days; their isolation from the other Belgian pupils had drawn them closer together. Nothing could ever hurt her again as much as the loss of Emily. If God had wanted to punish her for the sin of hubris – of daring to think she might inhabit those rarefied regions - then the punishment had been fitting, condign: She had been flung with violence back down to her proper sphere on the earth plane – numb with shock and misery. Emily’s absence was still a gaping wound from which she would never recover. And no amount of literary acclaim, no critical accolades could ever compensate for the constant ache of that loss. Feeling inexpressibly bereft, Charlotte put down her pen and covered her face with her hands.

Do not weep for me - I am here beside you. As you sit alone sewing, or writing, I watch over you. I am the Guardian and Ward of this house.

I’ll come when thou art saddest laid alone in the darkened room

When the mad days mirth has vanished

And the smile of joy is banished

From evenings chilly gloom

I’ll come when the hearts real feeling

Has entire unbiased sway

And my influence o’er thee stealing

Grief deepening, joy congealing

Shall bear thy soul away

Listen ‘tis just the hour

The awful time for thee

Dost thou not feel upon thy soul

A flood of strange sensations roll

Forerunners of a sterner power

Heralds of Me

Emily had written this poem when she was 19, in honour of Imagination, the great comforter. When they were young Charlotte had pictured the Future as a secret door, full of promise, opening onto a sunlit walled garden. Instead she had discovered it to be full of dark denials, onerous obligations, fears and anxieties, and now found herself sole custodian of unwelcome memories. Weary of writing, Charlotte prepared to retire for the night and climbed into her bed. She would have liked to keep the candle burning a while longer, but extinguished it, conscious of the fire risk. Just as she was drifting, she heard footfalls on the landing, and half raised her head from her pillow. The footsteps were too light and purposeful to belong to her aging father or to Tabby, who moved ponderously with the aid of a walking stick.

“Who –who is it?” she called out, her mouth dry with fear. There was no reply, and the sounds ceased. She lay there rigid and tense, in two minds as to whether to re-light the candle, then thought better of it. There had been no footsteps – she had been half asleep and must have dreamed it. As she shifted in the bed, she suddenly froze. The sound of footsteps on the landing outside was unmistakeable; they came closer, right up to her closed door, where they paused on the threshold, as if deliberating whether to enter. She felt her skin crawl. In a blind panic, she groped for the candle and box of Lucifer matches on her nightstand. Reciting the 23rd Psalm under her breath, ‘The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want…’ she rose from her bed, holding the candle aloft with a trembling hand ‘..Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me…’ Heart hammering, she flung open the door. The landing was deserted and in complete darkness. There was no-one there. She tiptoed across the passage and listened outside her father’s room and then outside Tabby’s, hearing the rhythmic rise and fall of gentle snores: they were both fast asleep. She had not the heart to wake either of them, but crept back to her own room, and unfastened the lattice. She would keep a candlelit vigil all night, if necessary. With her coverlet wrapped around her for warmth, she sat in a chair by the window – curled into a foetal ball - waiting for first light. She must have dozed off at some point, for she suddenly woke with a start. In the far corner of the room stood a shadowy figure, watching her. Charlotte screamed.

Minutes later, she was being soothed and rocked in Tabby’s arms. “There, there, ‘tis nothing..” Her father was standing silhouetted in the doorway.

“Charlotte, what is it? What is the matter?”

“I thought I saw a shadowy figure in my room….” She felt foolish, having disturbed their rest needlessly. She was a grown woman, not a small child, and should have been able to conquer her fears.

“If there be any shadowy figures hereabouts, I’ll fetch them such a clout as will make them think twice about lurking in dark corners” threatened Tabby “And they needn’t cock a snook at old Tabby, for she’s seen off worse in her time!” Charlotte laughed weakly, hysterical with relief. Tabby offered to sleep in Anne’s bed, and Charlotte gratefully accepted the offer. She slept more easily with Tabby’s comforting presence, and when she next awoke the room was flooded with sunshine and the household astir: downstairs she could hear Martha chattering to Tabby.

“Why don’t you invite your former headmistress Miss Wooler to stay with us?” suggested Patrick over breakfast, seeing his daughter’s hollow-eyed gaze and sallow complexion. He knew that she did not sleep well, and thought some enlivening company would do them both good. “I have always thought her a sensible woman”

Miss Wooler wrote back to say that she would be “delighted” to accept their invitation. She had never been to the parsonage before, and Charlotte wondered why she had never thought to invite her. Miss Wooler duly arrived in Haworth at the end of September as the evenings grew cooler. Patrick joined them in their postprandial tête-à-têtes, offering Miss Wooler a small glass of sherry. He had always enjoyed the company of intelligent women and they got on wonderfully well. They both led quiet retiring lives and shared the same outlook and political sympathies: both were staunch conservatives, with a horror of revolutionary sentiments. Charlotte was gratified to see them both conversing so easily and comfortably by the fireside, with the curtains drawn, almost as if they were her aged parents she thought wistfully. She soon banished that thought from her head: her father would never re-marry, and she was certain to outlive them both – yet another depressing thought.

“Charlotte has met Mrs. Gaskell, you know” her father was saying to Miss Wooler. “I have been reading excerpts of her latest novel and am greatly enjoying it” Cranford had just been published in serial form in Household Words, and Miss Wooler had thought to bring a stack of magazines with her so they could read it for themselves.

“Yes, it is an uplifting tale which increases one’s faith in the positive aspects of human nature” agreed Miss Wooler, as Patrick offered her another sherry. “The village of Cranford is almost entirely run by women. Of the most benevolent sort” she added.

“The world would be a darker and colder place without the ameliorating influence of women” said Patrick. Charlotte, who was sewing quietly in a chair beside them, smiled at this.

“Papa has become quite an advocate of women’s emancipation and education” she said, rising from her chair to stoke the fire.

“If we could just substitute Haworth for Cranford, with women such as you two in charge, how content we should all be” remarked Patrick playfully, and they all laughed.

“Your father is a remarkable man” said Miss Wooler to Charlotte, when she took her leave “You are most fortunate to have each other”

“And you must come again” urged Charlotte, embracing her, for she had now come to regard her erstwhile employer as a dear friend.

In November Charlotte was once again ill; her mouth and tongue had become ulcerated. Her father called in Doctor Ruddock, who diagnosed a “highly sensitive and irritable condition of the liver”. She now passed through the stone-flagged passage to the kitchen – glancing apprehensively to either side, a tight knot of fear in her stomach. Tabby had left a preparation for her liver ailment, as prescribed by the doctor, and she sipped at it slowly. The fender was rattling, as it used to do when Branwell sat resting his feet on it, and there was an aroma of roasting potatoes although the range was cold and Martha long gone home. Charlotte shivered and wrapped her woollen shawl closer. She turned and quickly left the kitchen, seeking the light and warmth of the parlour. As she placed her hand on the doorknob she could hear faint sounds of a piano playing – Branwell’s favourite tune – coming from within. She knew the parlour to be deserted: her father was upstairs asleep, as was Tabby. She snatched her hand from the door and backed away slowly. There was no-one in whom she could confide her nameless terrors: She was alone, all alone, the parsonage a living sepulchre. Upstairs, in the room she had shared with Anne, she took refuge in the Book of Common Prayer:

Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ

Chapter Ten – 1852 - 1855

In July 1852 Patrick suffered another stroke, which threw the household into pandemonium. The eye which had been operated on six years previously was inflamed, and Charlotte was once more obliged to read to him. She had decided to decline all further social invitations until she had made sufficient headway with Villette, as her publishers were now enquiring – in the politest of terms – as to when they might expect to see the manuscript. At the end of August Charlotte wrote back to say that she had been much taken up with attending her father, but that he had now sufficiently recovered for her to be able to state with confidence that the book would be completed by October. She had taken as her principal protagonist a very cool young woman called Lucy Snow, yet another orphan, who becomes a teacher at a girls’ boarding school in Brussels. Instead of the school being run by a married couple – such as had been the case with M. and Mme Heger - the Directrice in her novel was an unmarried woman who employs M. Paul Emmanuel as schoolmaster – thereby paving the way for Lucy’s romantic attachment without scandalising her readers. In her book the Professor falls in love with the heroine, whereas in real life Charlotte’s passion had gone unreciprocated. In this way she was able to rewrite her own history.

In mid December 1852 Mr. Nicholls was invited to tea at the parsonage, and Charlotte was astonished to receive a proposal of marriage the very next day. When her father heard about it he was furious, prompting Charlotte to write to Ellen:

“When he was gone I immediately went to papa, and told him what had taken place. Agitation and anger disproportionate to the occasion ensued; if I had loved Mr. Nicholls, and had heard such epithets applied to him as were used, it would have transported me past my patience; as it was, my blood boiled with a sense of injustice. But papa worked himself into a state not to be trifled with: the veins on his temples started up like whip-cord, and his eyes became suddenly bloodshot. I made haste to promise that Mr. Nicholls should on the morrow have a distinct refusal …Papa wrote, I must say, a most cruel note to Mr. Nicholls on Wednesday. In his state of mind and health (for the poor man is horrifying his landlady, Martha’s mother, by entirely rejecting his meals) I felt that the blow must be parried, and I thought it right to accompany the pitiless despatch by a line to the effect that, while Mr. Nicholls must never expect me to reciprocate the feeling he had expressed, yet, at the same time, I wished to disclaim participation in sentiments calculated to give him pain; and I exhorted him to maintain his courage and spirits…You must understand that a good share of papa’s anger arises from the idea, not altogether groundless, that Mr. Nicholls has behaved with disingenuousness in so long concealing his aim. I am afraid also that papa thinks a little too much about his want of money; he says the match would be a degradation, that I should be throwing myself away, that he expects me, if I marry at all, to do very differently; My own objections arise from a sense of incongruity and uncongeniality in feelings, tastes, principles”

Patrick was hurt that his daughter had so misconstrued his objections, which were less to do with Mr. Nicholl’s “want of money” than his suspicions of the latter’s motives: after all, he had been curate for seven and a half years and had never evinced the slightest interest in Charlotte before her rise to fame. Knowing his daughter’s delicate state of health, he was also deeply conscious of the very real risks of pregnancy and childbirth to a woman aged 36, and that it could prove fatal.

Villette was published in January 1853, and Charlotte took the opportunity to visit the capital again, driven away by the growing tensions at the parsonage between her father and Mr. Nicholls. She made a point of visiting Bedlam and the prisons at Pentonville and Newgate, having been influenced by Harriet Martineau’s zeal for social reform. She knew nothing of the condition of female prisoners or asylum inmates, and was quite horrified at what she saw. After a full month away from Haworth, she realised she would have to face her father’s curate once more, and set off for home in gloomy spirits. Feeling his position to be untenable, Nicholls resigned from his curacy at Haworth. A short while later he thought better of it and asked to be reinstated.

“He has a snug living up at the rectory, and the idle bastard hasn’t the talent to do naught else” was John Brown’s sardonic verdict to his wife. Nicholls had become a laughing stock in the village as word had got round that his proposal to the parson’s daughter had been rejected, that he had in consequence resigned his position then been forced to take back his resignation.

“He’ll be after her money, mark my words” returned Mary. Nicholls then declared his intention to emigrate to Australia as a missionary. Patrick coolly wished him well, and Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. At the beginning of March she wrote to Ellen:

“We had the parsons to supper as well as to tea. Mr. N. demeaned himself not quite pleasantly. I thought he made no effort to struggle with his dejection but gave way to it in a manner to draw notice; the Bishop was obviously puzzled by it. Mr. Nicholls also showed temper once or twice in speaking to papa. Martha was beginning to tell me of certain “flaysome” looks also, but I desired not to hear of them. The fact is, I shall be most thankful when he is well away. I pity him, but I don’t like that dark gloom of his. He dogged me up the lane after the evening service in no pleasant manner. He stopped also in the passage after the Bishop and the other clergy were gone into the room, and it was because I drew away and went upstairs that he gave that look which filled Martha’s soul with horror. She, it seems, meantime, was making it her business to watch him from the kitchen door. If Mr. Nicholls be a good man at bottom, it is a sad thing that nature has not given him the faculty to put goodness into a more attractive form.”

Relations between Patrick and his curate became increasingly strained “He and papa never speak” she wrote to Ellen “… Papa has a perfect antipathy to him, and he, I fear, to papa. Martha hates him…How much of all this he deserves I can’t tell; certainly he never was agreeable or amiable, and is less so now than ever, and alas! I do not know him well enough to be sure that there is truth and true affection, or only rancour and corroding disappointment at the bottom of his chagrin” Ellen wrote back inviting her for a two-week stay, which Charlotte readily accepted. Unable to put a stop to the friendship between Ellen and Charlotte, as he was not her husband and had no authority over her, Nicholls’ ill temper cast a pall over the entire household. The atmosphere was not much better at the sexton’s cottage, where the Browns were forced to endure his black moods. At the sexton’s cottage, the Browns watched as Nicholls sulked, still refusing to eat the meals Mary placed on the table.

“He mopes and skulks about the place like a whipped cur” reported John Brown to Patrick, who refrained from comment.

“If that’s the sort of missionary they want out there, they must be desperate is all I can say” remarked Mary to her husband in the privacy of their kitchen.

“I’d like to shoot him and put him out of his misery” muttered John Brown “Sooner he takes himself off and gets eaten by cannibals the better”

Following her visit to Ellen, Charlotte went straight on to Manchester to stay with the Gaskells. Nicholls was infuriated by Charlotte’s cavalier attitude towards him; the fact that she was financially independent from the earnings of her novels, and could travel wherever she wished, seemed to irk him even more.

“You must give the man a distinct refusal, and have done with it” counselled Mrs. Gaskell, after Charlotte had confided in her “There is nothing worse for a man’s character than to lead him on to think there is hope”

“I have given him no hope, but Papa’s manner towards him was so harsh that I was moved to pity, and so I went to him later and gave him to understand that I did not share my father’s sentiments – was I wrong to do so?” Mrs. Gaskell laid a hand upon her arm.

“My dear Charlotte, you are so naïve and inexperienced in such matters. It would have been better to let things stand. However, you are not to blame, for unless you have conceived a powerful attraction for another, you would have no way of knowing how such a passion can wreak havoc on the emotions, distorting their natural expression” Charlotte gazed at her mutely, on the brink of confiding her unreciprocated feelings for Constantin Heger. She remembered her first impressions of her French professor, who had struck her as choleric and irritable in temperament. It was thus that Mrs. Gaskell inadvertently set up a connection between the two men in Charlotte’s mind: she even began to see a distinct facial resemblance between the two, and by degrees, her thoughts and feelings respecting Arthur Bell Nicholls began to run in a quite different channel.

Upon her return to Haworth in May, Charlotte ventured out to church on Whit Sunday, in her father’s absence, and was able to observe her father’s curate at close quarters:

“It seems as if I were to be punished for my doubts about the nature and truth of poor Mr. Nicholls’s regard” she wrote to Ellen, upon witnessing his agitated state “..He struggled, faltered, then lost command over himself – stood before my eyes and in the sight of all the communicants white, shaking, voiceless… He made a great effort, but could only with difficulty whisper and falter through the service. I suppose he thought this would be the last time; he goes either this week or the next…What had happened was reported to papa either by Joseph Redman or John Brown; it excited only anger, and such expressions as “unmanly driveller.” A week later she reported:

“He left Haworth this morning at six o’clock. Yesterday evening he called to render into papa’s hands the deeds of the National School, and to say good-bye…I would not go into the parlour to speak to him in papa’s presence. He went out, thinking he was not to see me; and indeed, till the very last moment, I thought it best not. But perceiving that he stayed long before going out at the gate, and remembering his long grief, I took courage and went out, trembling and miserable. I found him leaning against the garden door in a paroxysm of anguish, sobbing as women never sob. Of course I went straight to him. Very few words were interchanged, those few barely articulate.”

Acting, Charlotte, nothing but play-acting to attract your womanly sympathies. He lingered at the gate on purpose, just as he was fully aware of your presence in the church pew. Papa is right. Do not relent, do not give in.

At the last minute before he was due to depart, Nicholls unexpectedly withdrew his application to emigrate to Australia, having obtained a curacy at Kirk Smeaton some 50 miles away. “It’s just as I thought - he had no intention of emigrating” commented the sexton sourly “He’s been on at the Bishop for some time to give him the living of Kirk Smeaton. I heard it through the Lodge”

“He’s a sly one - a fox about the hen-coop” returned Mary “Leastways he’s off our hands, and he’ll never darken this door again, if I have owt to do wi’ it”

In June 1853 Patrick suffered another seizure, which left him nearly blind again. Tabby was now nearly 86, and Charlotte had her hands full with assisting Martha in the kitchen and attempting to keep up her father’s spirits. She had also begun a secret correspondence with Nicholls, and even arranged a meeting with him, unbeknown to her father. When she tried to justify herself to Ellen “Must I resign myself to a lonely spinsterhood, when there is a man close by who cherishes and loves me? Papa will not go on forever, I am no longer young, and this opportunity may not present itself again…” the latter expressed her disapprobation in such strong language that they ceased to communicate for some time.

Think, Charlotte. Think on your exact words to Miss Wooler: “I have already got to the point of considering that there is no more respectable character on this earth than an unmarried woman, who makes her own way through life quietly, perseveringly, without support of husband or brother” So why do you now seek to exchange your single state for an uncertain life with a man you once professed to despise, and whose character and disposition is quite inimical to your own? Did you not write to Ellen “My own objections arise from a sense of incongruity and uncongeniality in feelings, tastes, principles” Why this sudden change of heart? Is it because you fear to be alone? You further observed to Ellen “Papa has a perfect antipathy to him, and he, I fear, to papa. Martha hates him. I do not know him well enough to be sure that there is truth and true affection, or only rancour and corroding disappointment at the bottom of his chagrin” If Papa and Martha both detest him, what does this tell you, Charlotte? Surely you cannot contemplate marrying such a man merely because you pity him?

Patrick continued to preach extempore sermons twice on a Sunday, his carriage as upright as ever. Nicholl’s successor had not proved acceptable, and Charlotte confronted her father: “Papa, it is clear that you need assistance if you are to carry out your parish duties, and has not Mr. Nicholls proved himself to be a reliable curate over the years? Even if I were to be wed, I would never leave you and Mr. Nicholls is in full agreement that we could all live together quite comfortably at the parsonage..” Patrick shuddered at the thought “Can you not see that by your obstinacy you are to blame? Mr. Nicholls is open to reconciliation. If you would only relent and give us your blessing, then all will be well” This little speech merely had the effect of making Patrick detest Nicholls even more for being the cause of dissension between his daughter and himself.

One afternoon Martha hesitantly approached Charlotte, who was busy writing in the front parlour. Totally absorbed in the characters she had created, she was scarcely aware of the former’s presence: her thoughts were far away in the Pensionnat de Demoiselles in the Rue d’Isabelle in Brussels “Please, Miss Bronte ….” Martha had scrunched up her apron in her fists and was staring at the floor. Seeing her awkwardness Charlotte stopped what she was doing and looked at her kindly.

“If there is anything that is bothering you, Martha, you mustn’t be afraid to tell me”

“I don’t wish to speak out of turn …” faltered Martha “but I didn’t think you ought to marry ‘im, Miss” she finally blurted out, before bolting from the room. Charlotte stared after her in some consternation. She couldn’t for the life of her understand what on earth poor Mr. Nicholls had done to warrant such universal enmity. She had noticed that John Brown had been sullen, almost to the point of insolence, whenever the former had occasion to address him: he had been a close friend of Branwell’s and seemed to regard Nicholls as being in some way responsible for her brother’s death. Which was utterly ridiculous. Perhaps the notion had arisen through the rumour that Emily had launched a violent attack on the curate the day of her brother’s funeral. Charlotte had not witnessed any such attack, having taken to her bed as soon as the service was over, but had heard Tabby mention something of the sort. Dismissing the rumours as parish-pump gossip, she returned to her writing.

Left to reflect alone in his study, Patrick now wondered whether he was indeed being selfish, as Charlotte had intimated, and whether he was standing in the way of his daughter’s happiness. If they truly loved each other, then perhaps things would work out for the best. He broached the subject with her over breakfast.

“Surely, you know that I would never stand in the way of your happiness, my dear. But ask yourself this, Charlotte: do you believe this man truly loves you?”

“I do believe so” replied Charlotte “He has given me such small tokens and proofs of his regard, such that I can no longer doubt the sincerity of his affection, and he bears no rancour towards you, Papa” Her father remained sceptical and unconvinced. Exasperated at the impasse, Charlotte invited Mrs. Gaskell to Haworth in the hope of securing a disinterested ally. The parsonage was made as comfortable as possible to receive the renowned author, but the latter cut her visit short after three days: the tension in the air was palpable, and although Patrick was unfailingly courteous it was clear he was not in the best of tempers. Mrs. Gaskell conceived an immediate dislike for Nicholls, and subsequent interviews with Martha and Tabby did nothing to dispel her initial impressions. Not wishing to jeopardise the warm friendship which had sprung up between Charlotte and herself, she confined herself to the observation: “Mr. Nicholls seems very correct, and I am sure he is most conscientious in discharging his duties” After all, she told herself, the opinions of servants were not always to be relied upon and it was not fair to pass judgement on a man after only one brief meeting.

As time went on Patrick had gradually become used to the idea of his daughter’s marriage, and by the end of January, he reluctantly gave his consent. Mr. Nicholls’ unsatisfactory successor was transferred to a Bradford church and the former left his curacy at Kirk-Smeaton in March, returning once more to Haworth as an accepted suitor. Charlotte had resumed her correspondence with Ellen, and in April 1854 wrote triumphantly: “… The result of this, his last visit, is, that papa’s consent is gained, that his respect, I believe, is won, for Mr. Nicholls has in all things proved himself disinterested and forbearing. Certainly, I must respect him, nor can I withhold from him more than mere cool respect. In fact, dear Ellen, I am engaged”

Disinterested and forbearing! How he has wrought upon you. You always thought I was unworldly but in the final instance it is you who have been duped. Oh, my poor dear sister.

Ellen was so disturbed by this news and so concerned for her friend, that she wrote to Patrick expressing grave doubts about Nicholls’ motives, asking him to show the letter to his daughter so that she would not feel they were going behind her back.

“I have the solution” Charlotte suddenly announced, following a heated discussion with her father. “I will prove to you both how disinterested he is” She proposed a legal settlement which would ensure that her father inherited her earnings in the event of her dying childless before her husband. Nicholls was privately furious but forced to accept the proposed terms, otherwise it would have looked as though he was only marrying Charlotte for her wealth. He meant to overturn this as soon as possible after they were wed. Charlotte was content, as the outcome would have been the same had she remained single, and she had ensured that her father would not be materially disadvantaged by her marriage.

Mr. Nicholls was now in residence at the parsonage and plans were feverishly laid for the wedding, which took place on June 29th 1854 almost before anyone in the village knew what was happening. At Nicholls’ insistence, only five people were allowed into the church, including Ellen, Miss Wooler, and his clerical friend Sutcliffe Sowden. Immediately following the wedding the couple departed for the west coast of Ireland, travelling through a remote mountainous region in Killarney on horseback, although Charlotte had never ridden before. As they traversed a narrow defile called the Gap of Dunloe their guide warned Charlotte to dismount at a point where the track became dangerous. Terrified by the sheer drop on one side, Charlotte was about to obey when her husband dissuaded her, saying he would lead the horse by the head. Charlotte’s horse wheeled in confusion, then something caused it to rear up - its forelegs flailing in the air - and she was thrown onto the stony path.

Upon their return to Haworth at the end of July, Ellen hinted that Charlotte’s letters seemed somewhat restrained. “Are my private missives to you being read by someone else?” she asked anxiously. The latter hastened to reassure her that their correspondence was private. Two weeks later she confided in her friend: “Dear Nell, during the last six weeks, the colour of my thoughts is a good deal changed: I know more of the realities of life than I once did. I think many false ideas are propagated, perhaps unintentionally. I think those married women who indiscriminately urge their acquaintance to marry, much to blame… Indeed, indeed, Nell, it is a solemn and strange and perilous thing for a woman to become a wife. Man’s lot is far, far different” Towards the end of her letter Charlotte implored Ellen to come and stay at the parsonage: the latter was finally persuaded to come to Haworth - for Charlotte’s sake - as she cordially detested her friend’s husband. Ellen arrived on September 21st, but was irritated to discover that Arthur had arranged for her to spend most of her visit in the company of his friend Sutcliffe Sowden, whilst he took his wife out on long walks across the moors. He contrived to keep the two friends apart as much as possible so that they would have little opportunity for intimate discussions.

After Ellen’s departure the two friends continued to correspond regularly, despite Nicholls’ disapproval, and in October Charlotte wrote “… Arthur says such letters as mine never ought to be kept - they are as dangerous as lucifer matches - so be sure to follow a recommendation he has just given - “fire them” or “there will be no more” – such is his resolve. I can’t help laughing – this seems to me so funny. Arthur, however, says he is quite “serious” and looks it, I assure you – he is bending over the desk with his eyes full of concern. I am now desired “to have done with it…”

You make light of this but I saw that you were not laughing. His eyes were not full of “concern”, they were full of ire and jealousy. How the worm has turned. He arrived on our doorstep– a wolf in sheep’s clothing – and you thought he was nothing, a mere cipher.

Between the acting of a dreadful thing

And the first motion, all the interim is

Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream

Arthur was so fanatical in his insistence, that his wife was compelled to write a few days later: “Dear Ellen, Arthur complains that you do not distinctly promise to burn my letters as you receive them. He says you must give him a plain pledge to that effect – or he will read every line I write and elect himself censor of our correspondence…” Ellen was furious. What kind of man felt threatened by a friendship that had sprung up when they were both pupils at Roe Head? Did he imagine that, because he was now Charlotte’s husband, he could control her correspondence and push away all the others who had known her and were close to her? She framed her reply in cool sarcastic tones: “My dear Mr. Nicholls, As you seem to hold in great horror the ardentia verba of feminine epistles, I pledge myself to the destruction of Charlotte’s epistles, henceforth, if you pledge yourself to no censorship in the matter communicated” Ellen later added a private note in her diary “Mr. N continued his censorship so the pledge was void”

In November Ellen received another communication from Charlotte: “Arthur wishes you would burn my letters. He was out when I commenced this letter, but he has just come in. It is not “old friends” he mistrusts, he says, but the chances of war – the accidental passing of letters into hands and under eyes for which they were never written…”

He asks that your letters to a loyal friend you have known since you were fifteen should be burned – what does that tell you? I could tell you so much more – but what is the use? What have you done, Oh what have you done?

Charlotte, who had never been fond of walking, was now dragged off for protracted walks across the moors on a daily basis by her husband, which left her fatigued. At the end of November Arthur took her on a nine-mile tramp, and she caught a cold. To add to her misery Anne’s dog Flossy was found dead early one December morning, and she wrote to Ellen: “I shall not get leave to go to Brookroyd before Christmas now, so do not expect me. For my own part I really should have no fear, and if it just depended on me I should come. But these matters are not quite in my power now: another must be consulted; Arthur is sorry to disappoint both you and me, but it is his fixed wish that a few weeks should be allowed yet to elapse before we meet. Probably he is confirmed in this desire by my having a cold at present. I did not achieve the walk to the waterfall with impunity. Though I changed my wet things immediately on returning home, yet I felt a chill afterwards, and the same night had sore throat and cold; … I am writing in haste. It is almost inexplicable to me that I seem so often hurried now; but the fact is, whenever Arthur is in I must have occupations in which he can share, or which will not at least divert my attention from him – thus a multitude of little matters get put off till he goes out, and then I am quite busy”

You have lost your way. You are no longer in control of your own destiny. You thought you were marrying another Constantin Heger, a man with scruples, but instead you have given over the reins to one who harbours a deep resentment at every slight he has suffered. Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides.

In January Mrs. Gaskell complained to Charlotte that a letter of hers had remained unanswered. Puzzled, since the latter was extremely conscientious in responding to correspondents, she wrote to Ellen for further information, which resulted in an invitation for Charlotte to stay with her old friend for a while. “I very much wish to come to Brookroyd” wrote Charlotte “… but the fact is I am not sure whether I shall be well enough to leave home…My health has been really very good since my return from Ireland till about ten days ago, when the stomach seemed quite suddenly to lose its tone; indigestion and continual faint sickness have been my portion ever since. Don’t conjecture, dear Nell, for it is too soon yet, though I certainly never before felt as I have done lately. But keep the matter wholly to yourself, for I can come to no decided opinion at present. I am rather mortified to lose my good looks and grow thin as I am doing just when I thought of going to Brookroyd”

At the parsonage, Charlotte’s attacks of nausea and faintness, loose bowels mixed with blood – were all ascribed to pregnancy. Nicholls had assured Patrick that his wife was probably expecting a child, and that her symptoms were quite normal. Tabby was exhibiting the same symptoms as Charlotte, vomiting at regular intervals, and Patrick grew increasingly alarmed. Whilst his wife was bedridden, Arthur took over all her correspondence.

“I’m sure I will be recovered by the end of the month” said Charlotte weakly to her husband “Please let Ellen know that I should like to visit then”

“….unless she improve very rapidly, it will not be advisable for her to leave home even then” Arthur informed Ellen. He went on to say that he had consulted a doctor outside the parish and that “His opinion was that her illness would be of some duration – but that there was no immediate danger” Ellen digested the letter slowly, trying to read between the lines: she could not turn up at the parsonage unannounced, and the doctor had said there was no immediate danger.

Cleverly worded, to prevent Ellen from rushing to your bedside. There was no immediate danger. He deliberately avoided consultation with local practitioners whose opinion might contradict the story he chose to broadcast, and your closest and oldest friends were given no indication that you might be seriously ill.

At the sexton’s cottage, John Brown had been confined to bed with “dust on his lungs” and could only whisper to his wife, amidst fits of coughing. “’Tis being a stonemason that’s done for me. Now is the time to pray for me, Mary”.

“Whisht, husband, you’re not done for yet” retorted Mary, her face tight with fear.

“What news up at the parsonage?” whispered John. “They say she is with child”

“Martha says that Miss Bronte – I cannot get used to calling her Mrs. Nicholls - is getting thinner and thinner. Well, I never knew a woman who didn’t get stouter when she was carrying” She exchanged a meaningful look with her husband “There now, John Brown, there’s your answer. And Martha says Tabby can keep nothing down, and the poor lass is run off her feet what wi’ nursing the pair of ‘em. I’m telling you, there’s summat not quite right, John”

“What’s he thinking of, dragging her off across the moors in this kind of weather? If that were my daughter, I’d shoot the bastard. Summat’s got to be done, Mary..” He was overcome by a fit of coughing which left him so weakened that Mary sent her other daughter hurrying off in search of a doctor.

In February Ellen received a faintly pencilled note from Charlotte “I am not going to talk about my sufferings, it would be useless and painful” On the 17th of that month Charlotte made a will, which completely rescinded the marriage settlement, leaving everything to Arthur as sole beneficiary with no provisions for her father. The will was duly witnessed by Martha and Patrick.

You would never have agreed to this, Charlotte. You did not know what you were signing, and our father is almost completely blind.

Ten days later Mary Taylor’s sister-in-law by marriage to her brother Joe, received a barely legible note from Charlotte: “My sufferings are very great – my nights indescribable – sickness with scarce a reprieve – I strain until what I vomit is mixed with blood…if you can send me anything that will do good, do” Arthur continued to pen letters to various friends of his wife, putting it about that it was Charlotte’s desire that no doctors be consulted.

He would have us believe that you refused all offers of medical help, after all the consultations and the trouble you went to on my behalf, and on Anne’s behalf? I am not permitted to intervene - I can only look on with pity and sorrow as the end draws near.

“On April 4th 1855 my dear friend Charlotte was laid to rest 3 weeks before her 39th birthday” Ellen recorded in her diary “I noticed a poor blind girl from Stanbury had walked several miles to attend the funeral. She was utterly distraught. The very first thing Mr. N said to me when I arrived was ‘Any letters you may have of Charlotte’s you will not shew to others and in course of time you will destroy them’. I could not bring myself to utter a single word in reply. It was recorded on your tombstone for all posterity that he was a faithful and loving husband. Let God, who sees all, be the final judge”

I watched as you drew your last breath upon this earth, and now I witness your funeral. The girl you befriended stands in mute misery at a little distance apart from the huddle of mourners, weeping silent tears for the only friend she had in the world. Father is bent and broken, his eyes sightless with misery. I follow him back to the parsonage and stay with him as he enters his study and shuts the door. He rests his head upon the worn desk and remains there, still as a statue, unmoving. Silence reigns throughout the household. The only sound is the ticking of the big grandfather clock. After some minutes, he lifts his head, picks up a pen and starts to write in a shaky spidery scrawl: Whomsoever God loveth he chastenenth. This world was created by its Maker as a testing ground, a battle scene of trials and tribulation, where the soul is on probation. When affliction and suffering is beyond endurance and all hope has been forsaken, deliverance will surely come… He stops writing as the pen falls from his inert and lifeless fingers. I am powerless to comfort him in his desolation, so I glide softly up the staircase and there I behold your husband as he ransacks our brother’s possessions, stuffing bundles of letters and papers into a sack. He then proceeds to my bedchamber and he finds your letters to me, my letters to Anne, Anne’s letters to both of us, our private diaries. He gathers it all up greedily, jealously. Later that evening he feeds the fire in the parlour – burning, destroying. It takes less than ten minutes to destroy everything we have written to each other, our voices forever stilled. Perhaps he senses my silent fury, for he looks over his shoulder furtively and starts, before consigning the last packet to the flames. I look in on Father, whose face is turned to the wall, and I touch his shoulder. He starts from his pillow and looks around. “Charlotte, Charlotte – is that you?” It is I, Emily. I am Keeper of this household and my task is not yet done. I patrol the perimeters and walk the spirit paths. I keep watch over the living, and I will remain here until Father goes to his final rest.

Within three months of Charlotte’s death, Nicholls managed to persuade the Reverend Bronte to make a new will making him sole beneficiary and sole executor: the will made reference to Nicholls as “my beloved and esteemed son-in-law”. John Brown died shortly afterwards in August 1855, aged 51, but Patrick lingered on for another six years before he too died in 1861, aged 85. The Church Trustees were unanimous in their decision not to offer Nicholls the living of Haworth after Patrick’s death, and after auctioning off the contents of the parsonage, Nicholls immediately departed for Ireland where he lived very comfortably for the remainder of his natural life.