Romancing Miss Bronte (31 page)

“Of course I am,” he enthused. “Tarbet is on Loch Lomond—there’s a perfectly decent inn there—and Oban is a lovely resort town. We’d be traveling through some of Scotland’s most beautiful regions—”

Charlotte raised both hands in protest. “George, do stop. It’s out of the question. I hardly think it’s advisable for us to go gallivanting around the country together. That would certainly set tongues wagging.”

“George, don’t tempt her,” his mother said sternly. “Her instincts are impeccable. You can imagine the gossip that would set off.”

“There’s nothing improper about it. Eliza’s coming along—”

His mother interrupted. “Eliza is only two years older than you.”

“—and Alick would be with us on the way back.” George wagged a playful finger at Charlotte. “Mark my words, you’ll not find a better chaperone in all of London than my seventeen-year-old brother. He’s like a leech.”

“George,” his mother said sternly, “have you lost your senses?”

Hearing the rising alarm in her voice, George chose not to pursue the argument, although both women could see they had upset him by siding against him. After dinner, Charlotte put on her spectacles and tried to mollify him by reading a few poems in French by Lamartine. But he remained sullen, slumped in his armchair with his legs stretched out before him, one boot toe tapping away to the rhythm of invisible thoughts.

His mother knew him well enough to expect him in her bedroom that evening, and she sat dozing with a book on her stomach, waiting for the sound of his knock on her door.

“I’ll have my way on this one, Mother, so don’t oppose me,” he stated calmly as he picked up a chair and plunked it down next to her bed. “I can’t imagine a place more to her liking than Scotland would be.”

His mother removed her reading glasses and turned a worried frown on him.

“Be frank with me, George. What are your intentions with regards to Miss Brontë?”

“My intentions?”

“You’re not entertaining the idea of pursuing this woman, are you?”

“No.”

“You hesitated just then.”

He paused and lowered his voice soothingly. “Mother, dear, you know my weakness for pretty faces.”

“I also know your weakness for clever people.”

“I find her fascinating, but not in that way.”

“But she might misread your attentions. You certainly don’t treat her like a sister.”

“I don’t think of her as a sister. She’s my author, and she’s an extraordinary woman. Her mind, her personality—all of it intrigues me. But she has absolutely no physical charms. There’s nothing in that regard to tempt me in the slightest.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. But I do worry about how she might misconstrue all these wild plans of yours. She’s such a sensitive creature.”

“Yes, but she’s also far too wise to think I could ever be in love with her.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands folded, a thoughtful look on his face. “I see it this way. It’s a gift I want to give her. The gift of my company on a simple excursion that would bring her an immense amount of pleasure. She needs to live, Mother. She has such a love of life, and she’s had so little opportunity to experience it.” He paused and added, “I think it might help bring out her next novel. She’s struggling to find a story, and I’d like to see her return to that romantic vein again. Scotland might be just the inspiration.”

“It’s very kind and generous of you, my dear boy, but that’s not the way the gossipmongers will see it.”

“I see it as good business, Mother. To keep my author happy.”

She hesitated. “Well, then, if it would please you.”

“Then I’d like you to do something for me. Tomorrow, after I’ve gone to the office, I want you to use your influence to persuade her. Without your approval she won’t agree, and that would greatly disappoint me.”

E
llen’s home in Birstall served as a halfway house for Charlotte, a way of easing herself out of the whirl of London before descending into the tomblike silence of Haworth. In the past, when there had been so many Nusseys tumbling over one another, Brookroyd House had been a little overwhelming. The cramped Georgian stone house was filled with a staggering jumble of heirlooms and small treasures, patterned quilts, chintzes, and needlepoint. It was difficult to find a place to sit that wasn’t cluttered with another body, a cat, or a sewing basket. The more fortunate ones had grown up and moved away, and Brookroyd had become a house of unmarried women and a wayside for the more troublesome brothers, who came around from time to time to stir things up. The drama felt warmly familiar, reminding Charlotte of the domestic upheavals, great and small, that had once occupied her own days.

Come warm weather, they escaped to the garden. In the mornings, while Ellen trimmed back the sprawling hollyhocks and weeded the potager, Charlotte would tag along, chattering away freely, her breathlessly long sentences dotted with expressions of deep affection like “my darling Nell” and “my dear, dear Nell.” In the afternoons they sat in the leafy shade of an old beech tree and pitted cherries, and later, in the pitch black of a moonless night, they would stroll the gravel walks arm in arm, dissecting human nature and their own hearts.

Charlotte arrived at Brookroyd late and exhausted, and she didn’t tell Ellen about her planned excursion to Scotland until the next morning. She knew she could count on Ellen for sound maidenly advice. Ellen’s
judgment hinged on the strictures of morality. Even romance must abide by the rules.

“You mean to say he sent his mother to argue his case?” Ellen said in wide-eyed wonder. “And she did his bidding?”

“Oh, the mother may be master of the house, but the son is clearly master of his mother,” Charlotte said benignly, looking up from her embroidery hoop. “She quite pleaded with me. She said George would be very upset if I didn’t go. George’s father was a Scotsman, you know. He’s quite proud of his native land.”

Charlotte did not tell her dear friend how little persuasion it had taken, how she had lain awake all night, burning with resentment at having to deny herself the sweet opportunity laid at her feet. Because it was the right, the moral thing to do. Then she had gone down the next morning to discover that George had crushed his mother’s objections and rescued her dreams.

“You mustn’t go.” Ominously, Ellen’s voice dipped to the low register. “It’s highly improper.”

“It might be, if things were other than they are.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I’m quite protected from him on two fronts: my age and my looks.”

“Oh, Charlotte, you’re fooling yourself. I’ve read his letters. I think he’s captivated by you, my dear, and should you find yourself alone with him out in some wild mountainous region with no one to protect you …” Ellen was getting a little carried away, and Charlotte was tempted to smile.

“George and I understand each other perfectly. And we respect each other sincerely. We really do suit, in all ways except those that would excite romance. I don’t fear his attentions in the least. I would go anywhere in the world with him.” She added, a shade defiantly, “Even to China, if it would make him happy.”

“What does your father say?”

Charlotte grew suddenly quiet, dropping her nose back into her needlework.

“Have you told him?”

“You know he is best kept in the dark about things that might upset him.”

“You mean you intend to hide it from him?”

“Of course not. But I intend to present him with the situation at the right moment and in a certain light, to be sure to gain his approval.”

Charlotte reached into her work basket and retrieved a small skein of gold thread. “Oh, Ellen, I am so weary of being sensible and ladylike.”

“Charlotte!”

“And I am so longing to go.”

Charlotte began carefully unwinding the skein, drawing out the fine gold thread.

“I think you feel more for him than you say you do, and I’m afraid he might take advantage of your tender feelings.”

“Come now,” Charlotte scowled as she held the needle to the light. “George is not a rake.”

“No, but he’s very worldly, and I think your judgment may be a little clouded.”

Charlotte fell into a long, reflective silence while she threaded the needle.

“What are you working on?” Ellen asked, her attention drawn to the folds of heavy white silk in Charlotte’s lap.

“It’s an altar hanging.” There was a shade of dejection in her voice. “I was growing tired of hearing Mr. Nicholls complain about our worn and faded altar hangings.” She lowered the embroidery hoop to show Ellen. “It’s my own design. A burning bush, in silver and gold thread against the white.”

“It’s lovely.”

Charlotte straightened her spectacles and raised the hoop to her eyes. With her nose nearly touching the silk, she began whipping tiny, perfectly even stitches. “I think he’ll be pleased,” she said, but it was evident that her thoughts were not remotely inclined toward Arthur Bell Nicholls.

In the end, Charlotte and her conscience struck a compromise. She spent a mere two days in Edinburgh with George and his sister and relinquished the pleasure of an extended excursion into the wild romantic Highlands. But those two days would be remembered like no other time in her life. Away from his mother’s watchful eyes, buoyant with the freedom of anonymity, Charlotte felt her heart suddenly take wing.

George planned every moment of those two days with Charlotte’s pleasure in mind. The local driver he hired was a hard-featured man with a dry sense of humor and a gift for storytelling, and he knew every nook and alley of Edinburgh worth noting. As they rode around the city, Charlotte chattered away to him like an old soul, enthralled by his rich Scottish burr as much as his erudition; while he pointed out the sights, they talked about Scott’s Waverly novels, about Scottish history and legends. George could barely keep up with the two of them; he sat back in the open cab enjoying the summer day, greatly relieved to see Charlotte so relaxed.

There would be no adventure in the Highlands, but George was adamant that she should see the literary shrines of Abbotsford and Melrose Abbey, even though it meant rising in the pitch dark to be on the road at the break of dawn. Abbotsford, the fantastic baronial castle built by Sir Walter Scott, was nearly a four-hour drive from Edinburgh, through magnificent wooded valleys. Once in the carriage, Eliza removed her bonnet, settled into her corner with her shawl behind her head, and slept most of the way, but Charlotte hung at the open window, determined not to waste a single precious moment.

They jostled along in silence, swaying with the coach as it wended its way through the valley. After a long while, George folded his newspaper.

“Are you ready to eat something?” he said quietly. “We have fresh buns the inn packed for us.”

Charlotte drew her head back inside. “In a little while,” she smiled. A strand of hair had blown loose and she tucked it into her bonnet. “It might amuse you to know that when my brother and I were young, we
were slavish imitators of Scott. It was all very childish, but it was a source of pure enjoyment to us, re-creating those wild adventures, all those stories of revenge and power and love.” A dreamy look came over her, softening her face and distancing her eyes.

“Have you any inclination to return to that kind of story again?”

She answered with a firm shake of the head. “I don’t believe in fairy tales anymore.” Then, sweetly, she turned her eyes on him and said, “I’ve never enjoyed myself so much, George. I don’t know how to thank you.”

He raised a hand in protest. “I will not hear any more professions of gratitude. This is quite as much fun for me as it is for you. I haven’t been to Abbotsford since I was Alick’s age.” He shifted his weight and grew suddenly thoughtful. “He has an advantage over me, Alick does. He’s much more studious than I was. I was quite unruly in school.”

“Unruly?” Charlotte prodded.

“I was expelled. That’s when Father put me to work as an apprentice in the firm.” He gave her a dimpled smile. “We exported ladies’ bonnets to India. It was a thoroughly practical education.” He straightened his broad shoulders and drew a deep breath before confiding, “But it puts me at a disadvantage. Sometimes I find myself quite overwhelmed by the company I keep.”

“You have a great intellectual capacity, George. There is nothing to stop you from acquiring knowledge.”

“I don’t have the time. I don’t have a spare minute in my day.”

“Then hold on tenaciously to what you have, and remember, when you’re surrounded by the Ruskins and the Leweses and—”

“—and the Brontës—”

She flapped her tiny hand at him. “Remember that it is not that they have any greater capacity than you do. Perhaps through circumstances of fate they have acquired an erudition superior to yours, but Nature is a wonderful school—my sister Emily is a brilliant example of this—and you can arrive at a knowledge unsophisticated but genuine.”

“That’s what I find so remarkable about you,” he said with a broad smile. “Any other woman would have flattered me. Told me I was perfect
the way I am.” He added with a shade of regret, “I wish we could have visited the Highlands together.”