The Crimes of Charlotte Bronte (22 page)

They must have been up there for quite a while because I did not see Mr Nicholls any more that night. I took Mr Brontë and Miss Aykroyd their suppers, made up the fires, and then tiptoed up and tapped on her door to say that her supper was ready. She did not come to the door, but just told me to leave it on a saucepan, and so I said ‘Goodnight', had my own supper and went to bed wondering what they were up to and not very happy at all.

When Madam appeared next morning I eyed her all the time. She looked very tired, and I could see that she was very ill at ease, and that made me wonder all the more what, if anything, was afoot. I did not see Mr Nicholls all day, and that made me cross because I wanted so badly to know what was going on but I felt he was keeping out of my way.

I do not know how I got through that day, waiting for something to happen, but nothing took place until after supper, when Mr Brontë was still alone in his room waiting, as I thought, for Mr Nicholls to turn up. To my surprise and disappointment, though, Mr Nicholls did not come for his usual time with him. Instead I saw
her
go into his room, and I noticed that she shut the door behind her, which was not usual unless folk wanted to talk about something very private. I was dying to know what she had to say to him that was so secret, but I could get nowhere near the door because Miss Aykroyd and the young girl we had taken on were about, and so I had to wait on.

In fact, though, it was a good job that I did not have my ear pressed against it because she had not been in there for many minutes before the door was flung open and she was out again. I was just coming along the passage as she flounced out, and I could see that there were tears in her eyes and her face was all red and set. She made as if to go up the stairs, but when she saw me she stopped stunt and went into the sitting room.

The next time I saw her was when, the following morning, I saw her making her way to the Church, and I felt that she was almost surely going to see Mr Nicholls. She was gone a long time, and I did not see her come back, but she came into the kitchen to see how dinner was getting on and I knew that something was very wrong because she looked much the same as she had done on the night before. She said very little to me though, and I had only short sightings of her for the rest of the day.

I lingered about that evening, making up jobs, until well past Mr Nicholls' time to come and see Mr Brontë, but he did not come and so, as I did whenever I could, I popped home for a minute or two.

When I got to our house Mother put her finger to her lips and shut the kitchen door fast. I wondered what on earth could be wrong, but she told me that Mr Nicholls had come back from the Church at dinner time in a black fury and had gone straight to his room and was there still. He had eaten naught, and had not opened his door when Mother tapped at it to see if he was all right. All he had said, very shortly, was that he
was
– Mother said he did not sound it – but would require no food that day.

He must have heard my voice as we moved along to the living room, because only a short time after I had got there he came down and gave me an envelope and asked me if I would take it to Mr Brontë. I wanted to ask him why he was not going to see him at the Parsonage that night, but he looked so pale and drawn that I could not. My heart quite went out to him, but with my family there I could say naught of what I felt.

I took the letter back with me and gave it to Mr Brontë, and later on Madam went and spoke with him again. She did not seem very happy when she came out and was in such a bad temper for the rest of the night that I was glad to get to bed out of it all.

The next night I popped home again and Mother told me that although he had taken some food at dinner time he had not been out of the house all day. She said that she did not think he was sick, but he looked very wan and seemed most troubled about something.

I took off my coat and began giving Mother a hand in the kitchen, and then I was more than pleased when she asked me to tap on Mr Nicholls' door to see if he wanted any supper, as I was dying to speak to him.

For a moment or so after I knocked there was no sound, so I knocked again and called his name and then the door was opened straightaway and there he stood. Though Mother had warned me, I was quite taken aback by how ill he looked, and I must have shown my feelings because he gave a sad little smile and said he did not feel as bad as he looked. I asked him about supper, and he said he would have some, and then he asked how long I would be there as he would like me to take another letter to Mr Brontë.

I could not help myself, I just
had
to know what was going on, so I came straight out with it and asked him. In a whisper, he told me that him and Mr Brontë had had a good row and that, in a temper, he had given in his notice. Now, though, he was writing to take his notice back.

That pleased me greatly, because the heart had gone right out of me for a moment at the thought of him going, but then I took the bull by the horns and asked what the row was about. He did not answer me directly, but just said it was over a trifle and that I should not worry about it. He did ask me, though, to say naught to anybody about what he had told me.

I stood there for a few minutes whilst he finished his letter and then took it back downstairs with me. Mother wanted to know what had taken me so long, but I just said that Mr Nicholls had asked me to wait whilst he finished a letter to Mr Brontë and so that passed off.

When I got back to the Parsonage I took the letter in and gave it to Mr Brontë, and next morning he handed me one from him to Mr Nicholls. He asked me if I would take it home there and then, rather than wait until evening, and so I hurried down the lane with it just as I was.

Mother told me that Mr Nicholls was out the back and so I went out of the kitchen door and found him just standing there looking at naught so far as I could see. I handed him the letter, and although I knew I should not have done so with Mother about I stood by him as he read it. Then, in a low voice, he told me that all was well, but to my mind he did not look it. His teeth were pressed so hard together that his face looked to be set in stone, and I knew that whatever the row had really been about we had not heard the end of it.

Christmas was nearly upon us though; so I put all that to one side. That time of year was always a happy one for me, and I had had some pleasurable ones at the Parsonage, but somehow I was looking forward to this one more than usual. However, there was to be no happiness in my life that year because, on the very next evening after I had taken Mr Brontë's letter to Mr Nicholls, Father came in and, looking more directly at me than any of the others, asked us if anyone had heard anything about ‘our lodger' and Miss Charlotte. We all looked at him with blank faces, but my mind was already running ahead of itself as I wondered if what I knew about them had somehow got out. What I was thinking was cut short though because Father, with his words tumbling on the heels of those that had gone before, gave us the news that broke my heart and my dreams in an instant.

He said that he had called in to see Mr Brontë on Church business and the old man had been so out of sorts that he was very concerned and had asked if something was amiss. Mr Brontë had looked at him for quite a time and had then said that Father might as well know that Mr Nicholls had proposed marriage to his daughter!

Father said that he could not help himself and had said that he hoped Mr Brontë was not going to agree to such a thing. On the instant, Mr Brontë had started half out of his chair, and his face had gone so red that Father thought his head looked fit to burst. Then the old man did something that nobody had ever known him to do before, he
swore
and half shouted that he would
never
permit such a thing, and that he had told ‘that b—— Nicholls so'.

It was so unlike Mr Brontë that Father had spent the next half-hour soothing him before he felt able to leave.

I hardly heard those last words though because I was in such a daze, and everything seemed very distant for a moment, with the room going round me. Then the tears had come to my eyes, and I flung out of the room before I made a fool of myself.

Later on I found out that that had served to make Father and Mother more sure that something or other had been going on between me and Mr Nicholls, as they had thought for some time, but nobody said anything that night.

I spent the next little while in the bedroom trying to put my feelings in order before going back down. Then I splashed my face and went downstairs and put my coat and bonnet back on. I put my head round the door quickly to say that I was going back to the Parsonage to see if Mr Brontë was all right, and then I was out of the house and down the lane, sobbing fit to burst.

I did not go back to the Parsonage. I went up to the moor, and wandered there in the cold and damp whilst I tried to sort out my feelings. Try as I would, though, I could think of naught save how Mr Nicholls had let me down, and I could not believe that he had been so two-faced. He had told me that she had some kind of hold over him, and I had had a good notion of what it was after reading Miss Anne's book, but still I could not see how he had come to even think of
wedding
her.

Within a day or two the news was all over the village because, seemingly, Mr Brontë had told every person he had spoken to. I do not know if Madam knew then of how the word had spread, but somebody – Miss Aykroyd I think – must have told her at some time as when we were alone in the kitchen she said to me that no doubt I had heard tell of what folk were saying. I looked at her straight and said that I had, but that I did not believe it. That did not please her a whit, and she said nothing more, though I could see that she wanted to.

As for Mr Nicholls, I had seen him in our house but there had been no chance to talk to him properly there, and he stopped going to the Parsonage altogether. I was firm in my intent to see him though, and so I did what I had done before. The next time I went home I put a note under his door saying that I just
had
to speak to him, and that I would be in what we called our own place on the moor at a certain time a little later that night.

When I got there I saw that he was there first, and he came walking towards me as I drew near. He went to take me in his arms, but I would have none of it and started in straightaway to tell him what I thought of him. The words just poured out, and the tears as well, until at last I just dropped down on a rock – talked out and snivelling.

He sat down beside me and put his arm and part of his cloak around me, and then he began to talk in the way that I had never been able to withstand. Kissing me gently on the cheek from time to time, he swore to me that he had been forced into his action by things that were outside his ordering and that I could not begin to understand, and that he could not tell me of. Softly he begged me to believe that he had had no choice for what he had done, and said that I should trust him whatever else might come to pass. All I wanted to know though was how all that had happened had left
us.

Thinking back, it is evident that he had given our meeting a lot of thought beforehand because, without any waiting, he had the right words ready. He told me that
nothing
would come between us, even though things might not be easy for us for a while. I did not really know whether to believe him but, like many a silly woman before and since, I was hearing the words I wanted to hear and I felt so drawn to him that we ended up making love up there, in the mist and the cold and the wet.

As was only to have been expected, that Christmas was not a good one for Mr Nicholls. It had soon got around that Mr Brontë had put his foot down and there was to be no wedding, and everyone seemed to know that Mr Nicholls had put in his notice and then taken it back as well. All the village seemed to be laughing at him behind his back, and Father went around calling him and making things worse, and so, even though it was usually a happy time for me, not even Mr Brontë's Christmas money really cheered me up because I did not like to see Mr Nicholls a laughing-stock. Only after the holiday did I feel any better, and that was when Madam told me that she was going to London.

As far as I can recall, she went away in the first week of that New Year of 1853, and she did not come back for about a month. I used that time to think about Mr Nicholls and me, and to try to be at peace with things, but also we were able to be together and that helped to calm me down and make ready for whatever was to come.

One thing I could not put out of my mind, though, was the chance that, somehow or other, Mr Nicholls and her
might
wed after all. It was a notion that I could not bear, and I did not know how I would ever stand the thought of them being in the same house – and the same bed – all the time. Sometimes when I had been thinking in such a fashion I found myself speaking out against Mr Nicholls as well, but I always wished afterwards that I had not because it was not fair after what he had promised me. Even so, such thoughts kept coming back, and in the end I had the idea that I might be able to stop such a thing coming about if only I could put Madam against Mr Nicholls, and so I used to tell her things about him – some true and some made up.

I started very gently but, as she seemed to believe me and to want to know more, I became bolder and bolder until in the end I was saying some awful things about him. At first, I had not known how she would take such tales, and I thought she might tell me off, but slowly we seemed to be drawn together, and she talked to me more than she had ever done. Still, though, I could not bring myself to like her any better. I had a long memory for the wrongs she had done me in the past, and as well as that I did not know what she might force Mr Nicholls to do in the days to come.

Then Spring came, and once again she was off on her travels. When she told me she was going she said she could not tell me for exactly how long, but that it would be for quite a while. She said she would be glad to get away from everything for a while, and I knew by how she said it that she meant every word. In truth, life could not have been easy for her at that time – not that that bothered me – for, all else apart, I knew that Mr Brontë and Mr Nicholls were not speaking and that must have made for some very awkward times between the three of them.