Romancing Miss Bronte (35 page)

“I can tell you this much: Nicholls is much more valuable to me than to any poor deceived woman.” He closed the clock case. “We’ve gotten used to each other, and I should find it very annoying to have to break in a new curate as old as I am.” He shook his head grimly. “After seven years, I expected a bit more loyalty than this.”

Charlotte thought that Arthur’s happiness should be a consideration, but her father saw people—particularly women and inferiors—in terms of solutions to his problems, not as individuals with tastes and affections of their own. She would not express her opinion. He was working himself into a state, and she needed to appease him.

“Papa, you tired yourself out with that walk today. Get on up to bed.”

“It’s a sad thing to lose your strength,” he said morosely as he raised
his candle to light the stairs. “A sad thing. I don’t recognize myself anymore.”

“It’s quite cool tonight. Shall I have Martha bring up some coals?”

“Nonsense. I won’t have a fire in my bedroom in May. Sheer extravagance.”

“Good night then, Papa.”

That night as she lay in bed, her thoughts dwelled on Arthur. He had become a quiet, seamless presence in their lives. So much of the responsibility for her father’s parish had been left to his capable hands. From the first day he had assumed all the duties of the incumbent—the funerals, weddings, and baptisms, the additional load of Sunday services in Stanbury that were held in the schoolhouse built by him, the running of their own Haworth church school, the visits to the poor—and all of these operations had flourished under his hand. He had shouldered it all without so much as a murmur of complaint.

The thought of his leaving weighed on her that night, and when dawn broke she had still not gone to sleep.

That summer Charlotte had ample opportunity to watch for any blossoming romance as she tended the garden in the front, hoping to bring forth a few blooms from the rocky soil. But neither soil nor schoolhouse yielded anything of interest. Arthur seemed intent on showing Miss Dixon his most rocklike and intimidating countenance. Whenever they passed in the lane, he nodded politely and bowled on by. Miss Dixon, on the other hand, seemed to slow her step, and once Charlotte caught her glancing at him over her shoulder. Charlotte was wearing her spectacles that day, and she was sure of what she had seen.

Thus it came as a shock to her when her father appeared at the back door one afternoon as she was helping Martha remove sheets from the line.

“I don’t know what to think of that man,” he said sourly as he squinted into the sunlight. Charlotte placed the folded sheet in the basket and turned to him.

“I can only assume from your tone of voice that you’re referring to your curate,” Charlotte said wryly.

“He takes his vacation in a few weeks and he’s been dropping hints that he may not come back.”

“How odd.”

“It’s quite unlike him, going all moody and womanish like this. After all these years, all of a sudden he’s unhappy. Says he’s thinking about going back to farming in Ireland. Farming! Can you imagine? Proud as he is!”

“He couldn’t possibly mean it.”

“I have no patience for the man. Needs to toughen up.”

Charlotte said, “To be honest, I thought he’d been looking a little peaked these days.”

Patrick looked toward Martha. “Have you noticed Mr. Nicholls behaving oddly?”

“Why, yes, sir. hasn’t seemed hisself lately.”

“Is he ill?”

“Well, not in body, sir. Strong as an ox, he is. But there’s somethin’ eatin’ at him. Mama’s noticed it. His spirits is low.”

“Has Miss Dixon turned him down?” Charlotte asked.

“No, miss. I’m sure of it. I think she’d welcome his attentions. But he hasn’t paid suit to her. I’d know it straightaway.”

“Do you think it’s a woman in Ireland?” Charlotte asked.

Martha’s dark eyes flashed excitedly. “Could be, miss. I’ve often heard rumored he has a sweetheart back home.”

“Why in blue blazes do you women think that whenever a man’s unhappy there’s always a woman involved?” Patrick bellowed.

“Because generally there is,” Charlotte said.

Martha giggled behind a sheet, and Patrick stomped inside.

S
he had begun the novel evasively, with a game of screens and mirrors and an aloof, benumbed heroine that even Charlotte didn’t like very much. But Lucy was no accident. Charlotte intended her thusly. She would refuse Lucy Snowe even the most muted optimism; she would equip her mentally and psychologically for sorrow and loss.

A mere spectator in life, more dead than alive, Lucy Snowe resembled no contemporary heroine. Unable to be truthful about herself, Lucy diverted the reader by narrating a story about a child, Polly, a tiny doll-like creature of extreme sensitivity. Polly was still vulnerable and alive; she still cried when she was abandoned by her father and pattered about after the young man Graham Bretton, eager for his attention and love. It was Charlotte as a child, when she could still feel, worshipping her once-adored brother.

But after a while, it became clear that Lucy’s nature was not as it appeared to be. Hers was a singularly constructed personality, a cauldron of anxiety, guilt, sorrow, and an enormous capacity to love, all of it sealed behind an imperturbable, tomblike calm.

Lucy had not one drop of faith in the future, but neither would she shrink like a coward before Fate. She would assert a choice, through the small window Fate had left open; she would bravely set off to Villette, an imaginary city resembling Brussels, on a journey of self-discovery.

It was inevitable that George work his way into Charlotte’s novel after all of the shared ambivalence they felt toward each other, the impressions he made upon her and the longing he inspired in her. But she knew
better than to fabricate a falsehood, even in her fiction; she saw herself—and him—too clearly. George’s vanity would not be sacrificed for love of a woman with neither beauty nor station, regardless of the bond between them. He would have society’s approval and play by the conventional rules.
Villette
would not revive the myth of
Jane Eyre
, the illusion of a great love that completes us and resolves all of life’s problems. Lucy could not have the handsome, charming hero, Dr. John; Charlotte would betroth him to the beautiful Polly.

If Charlotte was suited for anyone on earth, it would always and only be Heger. At long last she brought him successfully to life as the schoolmaster Paul Emanuel, and on the pages of
Villette
she shaped the relationship that had shaped her life. He had wielded such tyrannical power over her with his dark scowls, his irrational and tempestuous moods, his soaring intellect and explosive passions. Deeply flawed, he was also profoundly human.
He
could read her eyes, her gestures, her unspoken language. She had never been a shadow with him; he had brought her into the light and seen and loved her for what she was. In his eyes, she had been a whole woman.

All that year writing
Villette
, Charlotte suffered psychologically and physically. The work forced her to confront the truth about her past and come to terms with the harsh reality of what was left of her life. It provoked headaches and depression, wrenching pains in her neck and numbness in her back and arms, blurred vision and eyestrain. At times as she dipped her pen in the ink, she felt her breathing suddenly constrict as if a mighty fist were squeezing the air from her lungs; at other times the tension produced a viselike tightening of her stomach. Her entire body rebelled against the memories she had revived and the scrutiny of truth.

She finished the novel one morning in November. She had worked all through the night and her fingers were cold and cramped. She put down her pen and stopped the inkwell, then, with head bowed and mitten-clad hands folded in prayer, she whispered thanks to God. Gathering
her shawl close around her shoulders, she rose and knocked on the door of her father’s study.

“It’s done, Papa. It’s finished.”

She stood before him light as air.

He folded his newspaper and came around the desk to take her hands in his.

“Well done, daughter,” he said kissing her on the cheek. “Well done. Are you happy with it?”

“I’ve tried to do my best.”

That morning she buttoned on her boots and took the dogs as far as Haworth Moor. Rain-sodden clouds hugged the treeless hills, and the distant views were lost in gray fog. For the first time in years she was able to breathe in the beauty and freedom of her beloved moors. She recognized them like long-absent friends.

On the way back, passing down a narrow, high-walled snicket she caught sight of a black-clad figure approaching through the mist. Flossy recognized him first, bounding ahead.

“Miss Brontë,” Arthur said as they came upon each other. “It’s much too cold for you to be out. There’s nothing wrong, I hope.”

“Not at all, Mr. Nicholls.”

“Then you’re well.”

“Quite well.”

Meeting her unexpectedly like this seemed to both fluster and please him. He smiled nervously. “You do indeed appear in good spirits.”

“I’m sure it’s the exercise. I’ve had a brisk walk.”

“Ah, yes. A good brisk walk does a body good.”

Arthur generally doted on the dogs, and they were circling at his feet, whining for attention. But he seemed oblivious to them; he stood blocking the narrow path, wearing a strained and tentative look. Charlotte had begun to notice this strange behavior, but she was not inclined to examine it too closely.

“And your book is coming along well?”

“I finished it. Just this morning.”

“You’ve finished! This is quite good news. Indeed, very good news!”

“Why, thank you.” Impulsively, in the fog of her own happiness, she blurted out, “Perhaps you’d like to come to tea this afternoon?”

“Today? Why … uh, yes, I would be delighted. A sort of celebration.”

“Yes, if you wish.” She smiled kindly at him. “It’s just tea, Mr. Nicholls.”

“Of course, of course!”

He hesitated as though he would like to say more. There was an awkward silence, and then he came to his senses all of a sudden, stepping out of her way so that she might pass.

“Good day, Miss Brontë.”

“Good day, Mr. Nicholls.”

At tea that afternoon Charlotte was talkative and engaging. Arthur was uncharacteristically mild-mannered and quiet. When she passed him a cup he took it meekly, with a furtive but piercing glance. Arthur had never before struck her as meek or mild-mannered. She hoped he had not misunderstood her lightheartedness. If she had suspicions she dismissed them. At this moment she was riding on a swell of pure joy. He happened to be there, and she swept him along with her.

That evening Arthur dashed off a short note to Sowden:

Three days later Charlotte finished the fair copy of
Villette
and posted it to Cornhill. Then she rewarded herself with a visit to Ellen. Arthur was deeply chagrined to discover she had gone. Also, as he confessed to Sowden, somewhat relieved.

Having earlier submitted the first two volumes of
Villette
—of which both George and Mr. Williams had warmly approved—Charlotte was confident that the finished book would provoke little controversy and find greater approbation than her previous work. Most of all, she was relieved that George had seemed pleased with the character of Dr. John. Yet she waited anxiously for a response.

“I can hardly tell you how much I hunger to have some opinion besides my own,” she wrote him,

George could not help but recognize himself in the character of Dr. John Graham Bretton, and his mother in the figure of Mrs. Bretton. At first, his vanity had been flattered by the portrayal. But then, in the third volume, he sensed a certain contempt creeping into Lucy’s attitude toward the doctor. He made no mention of it to anyone, but it wounded him deeply.

There were a startling number of incidents that he recognized as having been drawn directly from their shared moments: the visit to the theater where a fire broke out, the intimate evenings in his home; only now did he realize to what degree her work was autobiographical.

He had always assumed that Charlotte would play the romantic card and at the conclusion throw cold little Lucy Snowe into the arms of the genial doctor. So when he finally had the third volume in hand and began to read, he was greatly disturbed.