Laura Rowland - The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

At last he spoke. “May I escort you to Keighley tomorrow?” His voice was soft, his gaze compelling. “After what happened tonight, you shouldn’t travel alone.”

That moment reminded me how fear can enhance attraction. I felt an almost irresistible urge to touch his bruised cheek. “But it would inconvenience you,” I stammered.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said with somber emphasis.

I was quaking inside, every particle of my being alert to the implication that Gilbert White felt the same attraction as I. Alive with hope that rivaled fear, I nodded wordlessly.

His rare smile flashed. “Then good night until tomorrow, Miss Bronte,” he said, and descended the stairs.

Breathless and weak, I stood in the corridor, endeavoring to collect my thoughts. Likely, my recent mishaps had rendered me too leery of my fellow humans. If Gilbert White did have evil intentions regarding me, then he would not have saved me. We shared a mission as well as the potent alchemy that draws together a man and woman.

Thus I justified my good opinion of Mr. White; but later, while I lay in bed, I wondered more about him. Was I truly safe in the protection of my rescuer and possible suitor? Or was he a villain biding his time while scheming against me? Just before I finally slept, I recalled the premonition evoked during my first encounter with Gilbert White. What could it mean?

As I prepare to describe the events that occurred after my return to Haworth, I realize that my version of them comprises but one portion of the story. Another belongs to my sister Emily. I then had no idea of her state of mind, for we were on such poor terms that we hardly spoke; and later, misfortune silenced Emily forever. I now face a difficult choice: Shall I allow her to remain as unknown to the world as she wished, or shall I reveal her nature in all its tragic, human beauty? The truth requires that I defy her wishes. It is my only hope of uncovering the complete facts of my story.

The table before me is covered with journals that Emily left. What she endured in the weeks following Isabel White’s murder lie in the words I have culled from these journals. May God forgive me if I have defiled her memory for the sake of veracity. With great foreboding I open the volume for that year and copy her account herewith. The Journal of Emily Bronte Wednesday, 12 July 1848. A sullen, unsettling day after a night of rain. More storms threaten-I sense their approach rumbling in my bones. The earth, the sighing wind, and the stone walls of the parsonage breathe a fetid moisture. Oh, how this weather darkens my spirits, which are already in grievous state! Shall the very heavens weep for the troubled souls inside our house? This morning, when I went upstairs to clean Branwell’s room, I found him still abed, a ghastly, emaciated wraith. “Emily, please give me some money,” he moaned. As I pulled the soiled coverlet off him, he clutched my hands. I twisted out from his clammy, revolting grasp, crying, “I won’t. Let me go!” “Just a sixpence,” Branwell pleaded. “If I cannot buy laudanum, I shall die!” Once I would have tried to coax him into resisting self-destruction, but I have no more patience nor compassion for the wretch. What are his afflictions compared to mine? Branwell began sobbing. “Oh, heartless sister! Oh, cruel world! I’m dying, and nobody cares! Oh, my dear, lost Lydia!” “Be quiet!” I shouted, incensed, because I have suffered a far greater loss. Our commotion brought Papa hurrying to us. Branwell launched himself from the bed and fell on his knees in front of Papa. “Father, I need money. Please, you must help me!” Papa shook his head in sorrow. “I’ve already spent a fortune paying your debts. I’ll not indulge you anymore.” Desperate cunning shone in Branwell’s eyes. “If you won’t help me, I’ll kill myself!” He snatched a razor from the dresser; I grabbed his wrist. We struggled together in a mad dance, Branwell trying to slash his throat, I trying to prevent him. “Let me end my miserable life!” he screamed. Perhaps I should, thought I. Perhaps I should afterward turn the weapon on myself-then neither of us need suffer more. But Papa wrested the razor away from Branwell. We locked him inside the room. He pounded on the door, ranting in maniacal fury. I went to the kitchen and began kneading bread dough, trying to distract myself from Branwell’s uproar and my own worries. Where are Anne and Charlotte? Come back, come back! my heart silently calls to them. But still I burn with my fury at their betrayal. Perhaps I should not mind so much if only I could write! But I cannot. Many are the stories begun since I wrote Wuthering Heights -all abandoned incomplete. Whenever I now try to write, I hear the damning words of the critics. They trumpet that my novel “shows the brutalizing influence of unchecked passion.” They revile my characters as “most revolting to our feelings.” What misery is mine! I can only pretend to work, covering pages with ramblings like these, while inspiration hides behind a locked door inside me. Fortunate Charlotte, who enjoys travel and is writing a new book! Fortunate Anne, who has published a second novel! Oh, my heart shall break!

Such bewilderment and consternation did Emily’s words cause me! How could she consider the mortal sin of taking her own life? Had I but known of her pain, I would have been more sensitive towards her. But she never gave me a clue. She always appeared supremely confident of her talent, as well she should have been: Her poems and stories were things of splendor that never failed to move me. In literary expertise she was the leader, my idol, even though I was her elder. And I never suspected that she cared what the critics said; she seemed so indifferent to public opinion, even during her youth. When Emily was seventeen, she came with me to Roe Head School where I taught. As eccentric in appearance as ever, she was the target of bullies, from whom I could not always protect her. But she never flinched at their tormenting. She held her head high, a soldier in an enemy prison camp. How I admired her! My weakness is that I always want people to like me-and my work-even when I care not for them. How I wished I could follow Emily’s example!

But now I understand that her attitude sheltered a tender soul. Emily pretended to scorn the critics while she bled inside from their harsh comments about Wuthering Heights. She hid her wounds from me.

When Anne and I at last returned to Haworth, we hurried into the kitchen, where Emily was kneading bread dough.

“Emily!” Anne cried. “How I’ve missed you!”

Emily glared. She showed no sign that she’d missed us or worried about us. Anne’s smile faded.

“Has all been well here while we were gone?” I asked anxiously. Emily behaved as though she had not heard me.

Anne offered our sister the book she had purchased in London. “We’ve brought you a present-it’s Tennyson’s poems.”

When Emily made no move to take the gift, Anne sighed and laid it on the table. Anne and I could only exchange worried glances and silently agree that we had best leave her alone until her mood passed. We crept out of the kitchen.

Two days after that unhappy homecoming, a spell of wet, chill weather descended upon Haworth. I donned my bonnet and cloak, armed myself with an umbrella, and headed down Church Road to post a letter to Ellen Nussey, my dearest friend. Ellen was something of a busybody, so avid was she to know everything I did or thought. I had lately neglected my correspondence with her, and I’d written a letter of vague explanation.

Moreover, I could no longer tolerate confinement in the parsonage, where acrimony reigned. Emily continued sulking. Branwell had gone into the village and returned home uproariously drunk. Anne had received a review from the Spectator that read, “ The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, like its predecessor, suggests the idea of considerable abilities ill applied…”