The Crimes of Charlotte Bronte (29 page)

That got me thinking hard, for I did not know what to do, but in the end I made up my mind that I should tell Mr Nicholls what she was having me do – because all my feelings were for him and I owed
her
naught.

He was
so
pleased when I told him, and said that I had been right to do so as he thought it very underhand of a wife to send secret letters. Then he told me that if it happened again I should give them to him first and
he
would see to it that they went off after he had read them. Of course, I said I would, but I begged him to be careful in the opening and resealing of them for I did not want anyone telling Madam if they found they had been opened, for
I
would get the blame.

So that is what happened from then on, because she began to ask me to take her letters more and more. It seemed to work all right, but only later did I find out that sometimes she gave letters to one of the other servants to take for her; so Mr Nicholls did not see them all.

It was about that time that something else happened that seemed to upset her greatly. When I went down one morning I found Miss Anne's old dog, Flossy, dead in the kitchen. I must say that it quite upset me as well, especially as, by the look of it, it had died in great pain. That did not prepare me for how Madam carried on though. When I told her she burst right out crying in a manner that I had never seen on her before, not even when Master Branwell and Miss Emily died and she was making it up. I just could not understand it, for she had never made much of the dog, but there it was – she had tears streaming down her face and rushed straight back upstairs and did not come down again all that day.

Another change that happened was that they hardly went out together any more, except for the walks up on the moor, and I even heard her making complaint about that, but in such a fearful manner that was so unlike her that I had to look twice to make sure that it was her who was speaking. Mr Nicholls would have none of it though and, in a harsh manner such as I had never seen him use to her before, he made it quite clear that it was his wish that she should go with him, and that he would not take ‘No' for an answer.

I could not understand any of that, especially as because when they first came back from Ireland she had been out and about everywhere in the village – in fact folk had got fed up with her calling and playing the Lady with them. Before she was wed, as well, she did not seem to be at home for 5 minutes at a time, and was always gadding off somewhere. Now, though, all that was changed and, as I have said, she left the Parsonage only with Mr Nicholls, and even then only to go up to the moor, and I did not know why. What I
do
know is that being cooped up in the Parsonage did not agree with her because she seemed to be complaining all the time – although not so much with me.

They had some visitors though, because just before Christmas, as I remember it, Madam got very excited for a change and started putting on all her old airs again because Sir James Somebody or Other and his wife were coming for a day. Well, you never saw such a to-do. She had us slaving away from morn till night, and you would have thought that the Queen herself was coming – and for a month at that!

Then, all of a sudden it seemed, yet another Christmas was upon us. I had not looked forward to it all that much but, as is often the way, I enjoyed it perhaps more than most. I was not able to meet Mr Nicholls though, which was a bitter blow to me, but he seemed so busy all the while, and she seemed to watch his comings and goings as never before. In a way, it was perhaps just as well though, because it always seemed that his mind was far away and not on what he was – or should have been – about!

After Christmas it was
awful –
especially as I had had such a good time at home during my time off, with lots of folk coming and going all the while. The Parsonage seemed so dark and cold and quiet, and everything was in such a mess that my heart sank. Nevertheless we got down to it, and soon started to get things to rights and warm ourselves up in the doing.

It took us 3 or 4 days to have the place back to near normal though, and matters were not helped by Madam starting to stand over us again and poking her nose into what we were doing, and telling us how to do it. It got to such a pitch that I nearly told her that if
she
had lifted a finger over Christmas there would not have been so much for us to do and, as she was so good at everything, the place would be as she wanted it – but I kept quiet, smiled at her sweetly, and thought my own thoughts!

Next morning, though, Mr Nicholls told me that she was not well, and would not be getting up. I asked him what was up with her, but he said that he did not know – she just felt out of sorts. He did not seem at all put out, and said that he was not going to send for a doctor.

Later on I went up to see her, and I must say that she did not look all that good. She wanted naught to eat or drink, and did not seem to want to talk to me, so I made up the bed whilst she sat out and then left her to get on with it!

After a day or two she seemed all right again, but even so I was very surprised when she came to me and said that her and Mr Nicholls were going away for a few days, and told me how to look after her father and Miss Aykroyd, as if I did not already know all about that and far more than she did – talk about teaching her grandmother to suck eggs!

She said they were going to stay with the Sir James and his wife who had come to the Parsonage just before Christmas, and I wondered why Mr Nicholls had given his agreement to that, because he would not go anywhere else.

Anyway, off they went, and I must say that I was pleased to see the back of them for a time and to have things a little easier for a change. They were only gone for a little while though, so it seemed that no sooner had they left than they were back again. Madam looked a little better than when she went, but within a day or two she seemed quite poorly. She said she had a cold. Over the next few days she just dragged herself about and was very quiet, and she began to go to bed in the afternoons. Then she started to be sick, and I wondered what was going on – for it seemed that she had something more than a cold.

The first thing that came to my mind, especially after what she had said to Mr Nicholls about having children, was that she was carrying, but when I thought about it I could not really believe that. For a start, she was not that far off 40 and, if I was to believe Mr Nicholls, they had done nothing of that sort for quite a while anyway. Then, of course, the other thought that came yet again – and hot on the heels of the first – was that Mr Nicholls might be up to his old tricks.

I may have been very much in love with Mr Nicholls, but I was not a fool, and all along – whenever he spoke of being patient – I had thought that, somehow, he might be going to do away with her, but I had shut my mind to such a thing because I did not wish to be a part of it even in thought. If that
was
in his mind though, the way that she had kept on and on about the bother with the horse in Ireland made me wonder if the same thought had come to her. Now she was always, it seemed, being ill and I thought it little wonder that she was so quiet.

Of course, it would have been much easier for him to poison her now that he lived in the Parsonage, and I began to think back on how he seemed to have been so mindful of her well-being of late. Since she had become ill he had taken to making her drinks himself and carrying them up to the bedroom, with one for himself, after she had had her afternoon rest. Not only that, I noticed that he always washed the cups himself. I did not like to see a man doing such things – especially him – and so, 2 or 3 times, I had offered to make the drinks and told him to leave the dirty cups, but he had just said that it was all right, and that he did not wish to give me extra work, and carried on.

I do not know what
she
made of it all
really,
but one day when we were alone in the bedroom she said something – I cannot now bring her real words to mind – that made me believe that she thought she was with child. She did not come right out and say so – it was just something that I picked up on – so I did not think it my place to take her up on it, but I thought: ‘If that's what you think, Madam, you had best think on.'

Some days later Mr Nicholls and me managed one of our few meetings, and I took the chance to ask
him
about it. It did not come out very easily, after what he had told me, but I had made up my mind to ask him and so I nerved myself and did so. What, I asked him, did he think ailed his wife, and could it be that she was carrying a baby? That did it! He took his arm from me, looked at me as if I was mad, and then asked how the ‘D—' could I think such a thing, and went on to say what I thought was a very bad thing for a man of the Church, that if she was it would have been an Immaculate Conception! Well, I said that there was
something
up with her, and I thought it high time that he had a doctor in because folk were starting to talk.

When I think back, I see that he never did answer any of my questions straight out, and I now know why. I did not know for certain at the time, but certainly I had a good idea of what he was about – I just shut my mind to it.

Then, as if there was not enough going on, Miss Aykroyd took very ill. Mind you, she had not been her old self for a very long time – and that was to be expected, because she must have been well over 80, and had not really done anything around the house for years. Even so, she had been very kind to me, especially in my early days at the Parsonage, and I had not minded looking after her as well as Mr Brontë. Now, though, it was not just old age but something far worse, and it made me sad to see her in such a way. She could keep nothing down at all, and sometimes there was blood in what came away from her, but when I told Madam and Mr Nicholls how bad she was neither of them seemed very bothered, and I could do naught but clean her and her bedding and see that she was warm and comfortable.

Perhaps it was to have been expected with all that I had been doing, but then, of all things,
I
was taken ill, and in very much the same way as Miss Aykroyd – although not so bad. Even so it frightened me, for it was rare for me to be so unwell as to have to take to my bed, and I did so only when I felt I could go on no longer.

Before I did, though, I told Mr Nicholls and Madam what I was about, and the next thing I knew Mother and my sister Tabitha – who is about 7 years younger than me – had turned up to look after things. Seemingly, Mr Nicholls had told Mr Brontë about me and he had told him to ask if Father could arrange for some help to come in and look after us all.

Well, it was almost worth being ill to have no work to do and to be fussed over by Mother, but I was glad when I was up and about again for it was no pleasure being in the same room as Miss Aykroyd all the time.

I do not know if what I had said to Mr Nicholls had anything to do with it but, some time in the February, he brought in a doctor for Madam – from Bradford of all places. How I wished, though, that somebody would bring in a doctor,
from anywhere,
for poor Miss Aykroyd – even from the village – because she just got worse and worse, and to tell the truth we were all tired of cleaning up after her. I feel very ashamed of that now, but it was not a nice job and I could see no end to it. Came the day, though, when she just passed away in her sleep, which was a shock to me when I found her like that, although I knew that for her it was a blessed release.

I rushed and told Mr Nicholls and Madam, but he was not put out about it one whit, and Madam was so ill herself that she seemed not to take it in properly. The only one who showed anything for her was Mr Brontë, and he was very tearful about her with me, and we both cried when she was laid to rest in the Churchyard, by the garden wall of the Parsonage, on that cold February day. We were the only ones who did though. Mr Nicholls just looked stern, and Madam said she was too ill to come, and I was not at all surprised by that because by then she was in a really bad way.

To tell the truth, she was very much as Miss Aykroyd and me had been, but far worse than me. She was taking hardly anything, and that only from Mr Nicholls, and she just brought it all up again and got weaker and weaker. Mind you, I did have some help with her from Mr Nicholls, who seemed very put out by her state. He helped me change her bedding, and it was him who cleaned and fed her, and that was a good thing because
I
could not have done it. It had been bad enough with poor Miss Aykroyd – but at least I had felt something for
her.

Having said that, I could not but help feel sorry for Madam. She told me that she was not sleeping at nights, and little wonder at that for I knew that she had read Miss Anne's book again, and by then she must have had her thoughts about what was happening to her.

All in all then, there was a very strange, quiet air about the Parsonage in those days and, as we could not open the windows for long as it was so cold, there was always a terrible smell of sickness, damp, rot and other things about it. I
hated
it all, especially as the smell tended to linger on me, and I had to have a strip wash every night to try to get rid of it.

I had had a feeling of trouble in store when they came back from Ireland, and there had been a little already, but now it was so strong that I just knew that we were all caught up in something awful and felt the doom that hung over us. I did not know it then, but things were moving to a close.

[
] We have seen that Nicholls had been examining Charlotte's mail, both incoming and outgoing, for some time, and we know that sometimes he censored her letters. Nevertheless, Charlotte was managing to smuggle a few out, with Martha as the principal intermediary. It was an arrangement which Nicholls had anticipated long before Martha told him of it, and he had realized that it was unlikely that he would be able to end the practice. He therefore decided to minimize the dangers of those which he feared most, and they were the ones to Ellen Nussey.