The Crimes of Charlotte Bronte (17 page)

The desk was locked, and so I turned the key but still it would not open, and it was only by jiggling it around that I found that it seemed to open in the opposite way from what I thought it would. I unfolded the desk, but there was nothing that caught my eye on top, nor in the secret little drawers underneath and between the inkpots. Then I lifted the flap, below which I had often seen Miss Anne slip things, and found several papers, all about things private to her, and a small bundle of letters tied up in ribbon. I read one, and found that it was a love letter from Mr Weightman, who had been the curate when I first started work at the Parsonage, but who had died young only 2 years after. Everybody had always known that Miss Anne thought a lot of him, and she was never really the same after he died. All the letters were from him, but I read only the one and tied them back up again.

Then, underneath everything else, I found one of the thicker exercise books that used to be given out to the older children at the Sunday School. I hardly expected it to hold anything worth reading, but I opened it and found that page after page was covered in Miss Anne's neat handwriting, but writ so small that I had to squint my eyes to read it.

I read but two pages, but that was enough to tell me that it seemed to be something of a diary of happenings that made my heart beat so fast it was like to burst. There was no time to read it all and so I placed it under my skirt and then went and hid it with my things in my bedroom.

It took days for me to read it all, for I could do so only when nobody was about. Once Miss Aykroyd asked me what I was doing and I had to tell her that I was going through some of
my
old exercise books as I was thinking of throwing them out. What I read, though, would not have been found in any of
them.
It was far worse than some of the magazines about murders that Father sometimes left lying about the house.

I found out that Mr Nicholls had poisoned Master Branwell, and that Miss Emily had thought that she was with child by him when she died, and that Miss Anne had told Miss Charlotte everything, but she had done nothing except swear Miss Anne to secrecy. Then came pages of her wonderings about whether Mr Nicholls had poisoned Miss Emily as well and whether, in spite of her promise to Miss Charlotte, she should tell someone else, lest something happen to her.

It seemed to me, though, that she might have been content with doing nothing more had she gained a measure of relief from writing everything down but evidently she did not. Her later words were about not being able to understand why Miss Charlotte kept putting off the holiday with her and why, at the last,
both
her and Miss Nussey were going with her when Miss Nussey had, at the start, made it quite clear that it was not possible for her to go. The writings ended with her hopes that Scarborough would do her good – little did she know, poor girl.

One thing above all stood out in my mind when I had finished reading; I could not, for the life of me, understand why Miss Charlotte had done nothing when Miss Anne went to her, but had made her pledge herself to keep quiet. Surely, I thought, Miss Charlotte would have wanted to have Mr Nicholls brought to book. It nagged away at my mind, and then suddenly it came to me that she was holding it over him, and all became clear to me, though it was to be years before I learned the full story from Mr Nicholls' own lips.

I sat there, the book in my lap, not knowing what to think or do. My first thought was to show it to Father and let him decide, but then it came to me that he did not like Mr Nicholls one jot, and that it was like to happen that he would have him sent to the gallows. I could not bear to think of such a possibility in the light of what was happening between us, and so I resolved to do naught. I was always taught ‘Least said, soonest mended', and that seemed to be the right thing then. Next day I put the book back where I had found it, and tried to put what it held from my mind for the time being, although it was clear to me that what I now knew might one day stand me in good stead.

I never said a word about it to anyone then, but what I had learned was to change the whole way in which I regarded Mr Nicholls and Miss Charlotte. With Mr Nicholls I no longer found myself in awe of him, and I went into our lovemaking far more sure of myself and of him. As for Miss Charlotte, no longer did I put myself out to please her, nor did I suffer her scoldings as before – even though they were far fewer than they had been when I was younger. Instead, I began to stand up to her when I knew I was in the right and, to my surprise, she showed me more regard for it and talked to me more than she had ever done.

However, I must not get ahead of myself, because I have not yet told of what went on when Miss Charlotte finally came home.

Much later, Mr Nicholls told me that it was clear to him that Miss Charlotte had found it a long time to be away from him, and she was even more pressing with him than before. Of course, I knew naught of that at the time, but he had warned me that we could not meet when she was around.

He also told me that Mr Brontë wanted his company more and more, and that he found it harder to get away. Looking back, I just cannot understand how foolish and besotted I must have been to believe him. It was evident to most folk that Mr Brontë had little time for him, and that for two pins he would be rid of him except that he needed his help. But believe him I did.

It was also much later that he told me of the tale that Miss Charlotte had spun him when she came back. He said that he had looked at her askance when she said that Miss Anne had died of a natural cause, and had felt confirmed in what he was thinking when, having asked for the poison back, she told him that she had thrown it over the cliff at Scarborough. Nevertheless he could not be sure if she had used the poison; so he made out that he believed her, and put on a show of looking pleased that all had gone so smoothly. For her part, it seems that she had been most worried about how the news of Miss Anne's death had been taken in Haworth and thereabouts, but he was able to calm her fears and tell her that there had been no talk that he knew of, and that her father had accepted everything – but little did either of them know what was said in the village behind their backs!

Miss Charlotte put on a good act to all and sundry about being so sad at Miss Anne's death, and how much she missed her, and so on and so on, but she did not pull the wool over
my
eyes. On top of what I had always thought and known about her, I now saw her quite clearly for the nasty little woman she was. Miss Anne's book had shown me that she knew what had happened to Master Branwell and Miss Emily and, to tell the truth – and I am not being wise after the happening – I had already begun to have secret thoughts about Miss Anne's death.

Knowing her as I did, I did not think it at all odd that one of the first things that Miss Charlotte set about was to go through Miss Anne's things. I had often seen her poking around her sisters' private belongings when they were alive, if she thought that no one was about, and so it did not surprise me when she spent hours sorting through Miss Anne's clothes and other bits and pieces. Nor was I mazed when one day I crept in whilst she was out and found that Miss Anne's book was gone. All I thought was: ‘Well if she didn't know it all before, she now knows what
I
know.'

After that I thought and thought about it all, because the only person in danger from Miss Anne's book was Mr Nicholls, and we all knew how very cold Miss Charlotte had always been to him. When I first read Miss Anne's book I had wondered why she had not told on him, but now that it had disappeared, and again nothing had happened, the reason suddenly became clear to me: Miss Charlotte was in love with Mr Nicholls. I knew for certain that she would use the book to bind Mr Nicholls to her even more closely and for as long as she wanted. Now, more than ever, I saw why he was not meeting me so often, and I understood his late nights at the Parsonage and so many other things.

From time to time I had seen them standing close together and deep in talk in different places downstairs in the Parsonage. On the times that they had noticed me, which they did not every time, they had stepped apart and said something loudly for my ears and then gone their ways. When they did not see me they kept talking for ages. I had thought that they were worried about Miss Anne or Mr Brontë, or some such thing.

Then, shortly after she got back, there was the time when she was going on about something or other and she said ‘Arthur' instead of ‘Mr Nicholls'. It was the very first time I had ever heard her call him that, and she knew what she had done as soon as the word was out of her mouth. She went redder than I had ever seen her go, even in temper, and said, very quickly: ‘Oh, I mean Mr Nicholls of course.' I had wondered about that at the time, but now, as I have said, I suddenly understood a lot of things and I did not like what I knew. I had thought that Mr Nicholls really felt something for me, in spite of the differences in our stations, and I had begun to have secret dreams. Now, though, I felt that I had just been silly, and that he had simply been dallying with me because, whatever his true feelings for me, he had to dance to her tune. Far too late, I wished that I had kept Miss Anne's book instead of putting it back.

I tried to get Mr Nicholls alone to see what was what, but there always seemed to be someone about and we could contrive but a few words at a time. All he said was that he would see me as soon as he could. I knew that would not be likely to happen as long as she was there, and no one knew how long that would be for because, although she kept on about how she was going to travel later in the year, just as soon as she had finished the new book that she was writing, we did not know how long that would take her.

July came and I resolved that I would wait no longer. I had not seen Mr Nicholls alone for more than 2 minutes at a time since
she
came back after Miss Anne's death, and it just was not good enough. I wanted to know
from him
where I stood. I thought about the matter for a long time and then I wrote a note and placed it in his hand one day as we passed in the hallway in the Parsonage. In it I said that I wanted him to meet me, without fail, in the Church that evening. I chose the Church because I thought that nobody else would be there, and even if they were they would think naught of Mr Nicholls and me being there at the same time, me being the Sexton's daughter and all.

I wondered whether he would heed my note and so it was with heart beating that I hurried along the lane, past our house, after I had finished work. I took the long way round the back of the Church to the little side door, because I did not want to be seen going in the front. As quietly as I could, I opened the door, went inside and looked around me. Nobody was there, and my spirits sank, and then I saw Mr Nicholls by the Vestry door waving to me.

He looked very worried, and the first thing he did was to ask me if I was all right. Since then he has told me that all day he had been in fear that I was with child – so I can understand now why he seemed so afeared. I told him that I was quite all right, except that he seemed to have no time for me of late and I wanted to know why. At that, he locked the door and took me to the long seat that ran along the wall.

Speaking very softly, and looking into my eyes all the while with such a tender concern, he pledged me to secrecy and then said that Miss Charlotte had a hold over him. He could not tell me what it was, and he hoped to break it soon, but in the meantime he dared not see me whilst she was about lest it got back to her. Of course, I did not let on that I knew what her hold was, I just listened to him talking so gently in that lovely smooth voice. He told me that he really cared for me, and were I patient for a couple of months it seemed that we would then have plenty of time together because she would be away a lot then.

There was nothing I could do but agree to bide my time. I could gainsay him nothing, and when he drew me down we made love in such a way that I felt sure that his feelings for me were all that he said they were.

As it happened, Miss Charlotte finished her book in the August, but she did not go on her travels until the October. After that she was away, on and off, for several weeks and Mr Nicholls was as good as his word. We managed quite a few meetings, in the Church and the School and on the moor – although it was a bit cold up there. Twice we even made love in the Parsonage – the first time on the night of the very day when she first went away – but I was always ill at ease doing it there, although somehow it used to excite me more than anything else.

Then Christmas came and she was back, and Miss Nussey came and stayed well into the New Year. There was no chance at all of our long meetings, and in any case he did not seem in a very good humour although I did not know why.

It was a long miserable time after Christmas. The weather was bad, and it was very dark and cold morning and night, and I longed for Spring to come because Miss Charlotte was dropping little hints that she would go away again then. In the meantime my days seemed endless, and I seemed to have little wish to do aught. Father became quite concerned about me, but I told him I was all right, it was just that Winter was getting me down and I longed for warm days and light nights.

In March 1850, she did indeed go off again, somewhat earlier than I had thought she would, and she was away for several times after that. I do not know what she got up to on her travels, but she was always going on about the men she had met and stayed with, and hardly ever made mention of women. Once, though, when I was alone with her in the sitting room, and she was going on as usual about all the important men she had met, she gave little hints that she thought that one or two were would-be suitors. She looked at me as if waiting for me to say something, but I said naught. I was thinking that she must be mad to think that, but it was evident that she did.

I do not know who else she dropped like remarks to, but once, when she was away, I was making up his fire for Mr Brontë and he asked me outright if I had heard talk of his daughter getting wed, or if she had said anything to me. It was not unusual for him to talk to me – in fact he seemed to have quite taken to me as the years went by, especially with two of his daughters dead and him being left so much alone and all – but never before had he spoken to me of family matters and at first I did not know how to answer him.