The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë, page 42
Every evening we would return to the inn chilled but invigorated, where we would warm ourselves by the fire over a quiet supper, and recapitulate with enthusiasm all that we had seen and experienced. At night, when we adjourned to our chamber, and I succumbed readily and willingly to my husband’s embrace, I found myself enveloped in a cocoon of happiness and pleasure such as I had never known. Each night drew us closer; we came to laugh about that first night, when Arthur had vanished at the top of the stairs and left me to undress alone. Now, he insisted on performing the most intimate of those ministrations himself.
Modesty prevents me from writing more; I can only say that, my husband proved to be more nimble and expedient at unlacing a corset than any one could rightfully expect from a man of God; and no husband could ever have been more tender, more sensitive, or more devoted to his wife than mine.
Alas! On the heels of all this happiness, an event occurred which wreaked havoc in the tender bond built during that first week of growing intimacy, and which threatened to tear a permanent rent in the very fabric of my marriage itself.
Twenty-three
We went to Ireland.
Our sojourn in Wales had been but an hors d’oeuvre preceding the primary objective of the honeymoon trip. Arthur was eager to take me to his native country: to share with me his favourite haunts, to introduce me to his family, and to the home where he was raised. He had as yet ventured very little information on these subjects, however. When I had inquired again about his family and their residence, he had shrugged and looked away, replying quietly, “They’re good Irish country-folk, well-meaning and kind of heart. Aunt Bell and my unmarried cousins still live in the same house where I grew up. I love them all dearly; but I’d rather you meet them and judge for yourself.”
I had determined, at that moment, that no matter how poor his relations’ accommodations might be—or how rough of character they were—I would admire and love them all for his sake.
On Tuesday 4 July, we crossed Anglesey by rail to Holyhead, where (thankfully) the weather was calm, and the passage good. I had, however, never possessed a sea-farer’s stomach. Arthur tried to distract me during the first part of the voyage with a long stroll about the deck. As we inhaled the bracing sea-air, we made whispered observations about the various passengers on board.
“They look very happy,” observed I of a young couple walking hand in hand, and engaged tête-à-tête in a quiet conversation.
“Perhaps they’re also newly-weds,” said Arthur, smiling as he took my hand.
“Who is that gentleman?” I whispered, nodding towards a fat man seated on a campstool, sheltered from the breeze.
“A barrister, no doubt. I do hope, for his sake, that the stool’s of a sturdy make.”
We shared a quiet laugh. I spotted another twosome strolling towards us: a bearded gentleman in his early forties, whose well-cut coat and hat declared him to be a man of wealth and status, and a sad-eyed, pretty young woman half his age (his daughter, I presumed), wearing a velvet pelisse over an exquisite dress of rose-coloured silk; she carried a matching parasol and wore a truly fabulous hat, beneath which spilled a profusion of light brown curls.
“If not for her elegant attire, does she not—in face and figure—remind you of my sister Anne?” I said.
“She does, a bit.”
The girl, on catching my eye, smiled briefly and then averted her gaze. “I wonder why she looks so sad?” I mused. Before my husband could reply, the bell rang announcing luncheon. I knew Arthur must be hungry, and he did not suffer from the same malaise as I. “Arthur: I am in no mood to eat, but please go on without me.”
“Are you sure? I hate to leave you alone. What’ll you do?”
“I shall take another turn about the deck. If I feel very unwell, I shall go down into the cabin and lie down. If not, you will find me at the rail—just there.”
“Well; if you’re certain you don’t mind,” responded Arthur, and, making sure that I was well wrapped up and in no danger of taking a chill, he left to seek his mid-day meal.
I spent the interval as promised, continuing my tour of the ship’s deck. Eventually, I made my way back to my chosen spot at the rail to wait for Arthur’s return. For some minutes I stood quite still, delighting in the feel of the cool sea-breeze against my cheeks, and drinking in the view of the sparkling, deep blue waves, the sea-birds on their crests, and the pale, beclouded sky overhanging all. As I stared at the horizon, I thought I glimpsed a far-off coast beginning to emerge through the dense white haze.
“Is that Ireland?” asked a feminine voice behind me.
I broke from my reverie, as the young, richly-dressed woman in rose-coloured silk, who I had earlier observed, took her place at the rail beside me. I smiled at her question; based on the ship’s itinerary and course, what other expanse of land could that be in the distance before us? “Yes, it is Ireland. Is this your first crossing, too?”
She nodded. “How I wish the ship would turn around, and I could return home!” A look of such pervasive sadness crossed her pretty face, that my heart went out to her.
“Why are you going to Ireland?”
“To visit family I have never seen. Oh! My heart is breaking as I speak.” Tears sprang into her eyes. “I am in love, you see. My young man is the first son of a baronet and very wealthy—but not wealthy enough for my father. Papa says I must marry a duke or earl—he will accept nothing less—and to keep us apart, he is taking me to Ireland for six months, where he hopes I will ‘come to my senses.’ Six months! That is half a year! How papa can imagine that such a separation will dull my love for Edward, I cannot imagine!”
“Perhaps things may yet turn out all right, if you are patient.”
“What good will patience do? I shall die if I cannot marry Edward—but papa has forbidden me from ever seeing him again.”
“If you and your lover prove as steadfast in your affections six months from now as you are to-day, and if your young man has an opportunity to prove himself worthy, perhaps your father will have a change of heart.”
“He will never change his mind.”
“You cannot be certain of that. I have some experience in this. I once found myself in a situation similar to yours.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. My father violently disapproved of my suitor, and forbade the match for more than a year. In time, however, he came to see that he was wrong—and we are now married.”
“Are you truly?” The young lady dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “The tall gentleman I saw you with before—is he your husband?”
“Yes.”
“He looked very nice.”
“He is indeed.”
“I suppose you have been married for many years, now?”
“Less than a week, in fact. We are on our honeymoon.”
“Your honeymoon? What? At your age? Well, who would have thought! Are you madly, deeply in love?”
The question caught me off guard; I blushed. What business was it of hers, I thought, to ask such a personal question? At the same time, I could not help but ask myself: what did I feel for my new husband? Mentally, I answered: I felt an overwhelming affection, admiration, and gratitude, that had blossomed with our new-found intimacy, and had grown with each passing day into something very sweet and deeply felt. Was that love? Oh! I realised with a sudden rush of joy—yes, yes it was! This tender feeling was far more solid, more sincere and true than the all-consuming, restless passion I had once equated with the emotion. This was indeed love! I did love my husband! I loved him!
Before I could reply, the young woman said, “How long you are in answering! I did not mean to make you so uncomfortable. Your husband—from his dress, I suppose he is a vicar?”
“He is a curate.”
“Only a curate? He looks far too old to be a curate.”
I bristled. “He is not so very old.”
“I cannot even imagine marrying a curate. He must be very poor.” She touched my arm with a sympathetic look. “I understand now. No wonder you did not eagerly proclaim your love for him. You must have felt rather desperate at your age to marry any man—but to have no choice but to marry a poor curate—I am so sorry. That would be a big step down in the world for any one.”
I stared at her, shocked by her remark, struggling to remind myself that the young, beautiful, and rich were rarely tactful. “Certainly my future with him will not be brilliant,” I replied steadily, “but I trust that—”
The young lady’s eyes suddenly widened in dismay as she looked up, her attention caught by something over my right shoulder.
I whirled around—only to find Arthur standing just a few feet behind us. From the look of deep hurt and mortification on his countenance, I realised that he had overheard, at the very least, the last part of our conversation. “Arthur!” I began; but without a word, he turned and strode deliberately away.
I felt the colour drain from my face, as first a chill, and then the heat of shame spread through me. “Excuse me,” I said to the young lady, and I rushed after my husband. His stride far exceeded mine, however, and it was some minutes before I caught up with him, on the opposite side of the ship, where he stood at the rail gazing sadly out to sea. “Arthur, I am so sorry. Whatever you heard—”
“Charlotte. I am no fool. I have known you too long and too well to retain any illusions. I know you do not love me.”
“Arthur!”
“I read Villette. I remember what your brother and sister said. I know to whom your heart belongs—and always will belong.”
I gasped, alarmed and pained to think that my husband harboured this misconception. “No—wait—”
“I understand the kind of man you dreamt of marrying, Charlotte, and how ill that dream compares with the reality. That girl was right: you married beneath you. I suppose you did feel desperate. God knows you took long enough to make up your mind. There is little I can say or do about any of that now, except to hope that one day you might come to feel differently; but what hurts—what really rankles—is that you’d see fit to discuss those complaints with a complete stranger.”
My cheeks burned crimson. “I was not complaining, Arthur. I have no complaints. That young lady was upset about her own situation, and I only said—”
“You said your ‘future with me will not be brilliant’—and right you are about that.”
“It was wrong of me! I should not have said it, or thought it. I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. But Arthur—”
He held up a hand to silence me. “Enough. Let us not spoil the voyage. We need say no more about it.” The joyous tone which had formerly marked all his speech was gone; the warm, affectionate spark had fled from his eyes, leaving behind a hollow, resigned expression, that tore into my heart like a knife. “I’ll take a walk now on my own, if you don’t mind.” He turned and strode away.
Oh! What had I done? When that young woman said those awful things, why had I not firmly and immediately rushed to my husband’s defence? With a few, ill-chosen words, I had just destroyed every ounce of goodwill and affection that my husband and I had built together over the previous weeks and months. How could I ever repair the damage that I had inflicted?
I spent the last part of the crossing in our berth below, feeling increasingly ill—whether sea-sickness or anxiety was the greater cause, I could not tell. Arthur did not join me. The ship docked at Kingstown just before midnight. As we gathered on deck, the cold, damp air and black scowl of the night only served to compound my misery. The lights of the foreign harbour appeared not as sparkling jewels, but like unnumbered threatening eyes. A stiff formality now existed between Arthur and me—and I had no one to blame but myself.
We disembarked to find Arthur’s brother Alan awaiting us. The two men shouted out with joy at the sight of each other and embraced warmly. Alan Nicholls was nearly three years older than Arthur and greatly resembled him, with the same dark hair, the same fine twinkling eyes, and the same strong build.
“Alan: may I present my wife, Charlotte,” said Arthur, nudging me forward gently, his hand at my back. His features were a perfect mask, giving no outward sign of the inner turmoil from which I knew he suffered. Indeed, no one observing the ensuing dialogue could have an inkling that a disagreement of major proportions had occurred between us only a few hours before.
“Well, well! So this is your dear Charlotte! At last we meet,” cried Alan, as he turned to look me over with a warm, appraising smile. His deep voice and lively Irish accent so closely resembled my husband’s, that had I closed my eyes, I might not have been able to discern the identity of the speaker. “Arthur’s been raving about you so long and so loudly for so many years, we were beginning to wonder if you could be quite real. I’m relieved to see that you are.” With that he took my hand in his and kissed it, then boldly leaned forward and planted a firm kiss on my cheek. “Welcome to the family, sister.”
“Thank you,” said I, returning his warm smile.
After our luggage was located and loaded into a cab, we rumbled off across the cobble stones, on our way into Dublin.
“I’ve taken the next two weeks as a holiday,” said Alan. I knew that he had left Trinity College early without matriculating, and was now a shipping agent who managed the Grand Canal from Dublin to Banagher. To my delight, I found him to be a sagacious, well-informed, and courteous man. “There’s a league of family members waiting to meet you at Banagher, Charlotte—eager to make the acquaintance of the woman who stole our Arthur’s heart.”
“I look forward to meeting them.”
“That’s a few days off still,” interjected Arthur. “I’m hoping to show Charlotte around Dublin first.”
“Of course,” said Alan. “Our home is your home, and I’ll be happy to escort you any place you like.”
Alan’s small, two-storey house exceeded my expectations; although modest, it was comfortable and on a very nice street. As the hour was so late, his family was all asleep, and we retired the moment we arrived. When I crawled into bed beside Arthur, I apologised again for what had happened on the ship and made another attempt to explain—and to express my feelings—but he only turned his back to me and went to sleep. I was so heart-sick that I slept fitfully. Whether it was due to the stress and excitement of the previous few days, the chill air of the sea voyage, or my depression of spirits, I could not say—perhaps it was a combination of all these things—but I awoke the next morning to find my cold much worse, and myself possessed of a deep cough. Worse yet, the bed beside me was cold and empty.
I issued downstairs to find Arthur engrossed in happy conversation with his brother in the parlour, before breakfast. I put a smile on my face, determined not to let our personal troubles infect our visit. I was immediately introduced to Alan’s family. His wife, an attractive and gracious woman, bade me welcome, and voiced her regret that she could not join us on our sightseeing excursion; she thought it best that she stay home with their two lively children. Every one expressed concern about my health, but I assured them that I would be equal to their plans for the day.
“I just learned that two of my cousins will be joining us,” said Arthur.
He had no sooner spoken when the first of said cousins—Joseph Bell, handsome, dark-haired, and twenty-three years old—bounded in the front door and presented himself with a beguiling smile and a thick Irish brogue. “Top of the mornin’ to you, one and all. Arthur! How are you, old man?”
The cousins warmly embraced; it was a unique pleasure for me to witness such a display of physical affection between men. “Charlotte,” said Arthur, as both men turned to me, “may I present my cousin Joseph.”
“Welcome, cousin Charlotte,” said Joseph, bowing low before me with a grand flourish. “It is both an honour and a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, sir,” I replied, impressed by his refined English manners.
“Your reputation precedes you,” continued Joseph with enthusiasm. “I loved Jane Eyre. A truly remarkable book.”
“Thank you,” returned I, with a little blush, “but it is really just a simple tale.”
“A simple tale?” said he to Arthur, with a laugh. “I see your wife is modest as well as brilliant. You have got yourself quite a catch, cousin.” (Back to me now, sotto voce:) “And you, Mrs. Nicholls, have done very well for yourself, besides. You’ll never find a better man than my cousin Arthur—even if he is a bit too stern and crotchety at times.”
“Joseph is the most brilliant student at Trinity College,” explained Arthur proudly. “Alan tells me he just gained three premiums as prizes.”68
“That should tell you something about the quality of the competition,” added Joseph with another laugh.
Having been led by papa and Ellen to believe that Arthur’s family were illiterate, uneducated, wild Irish barbarians who lived in squalor, and by Arthur himself to expect only “country-folk,” I had never expected to find a Trinity student among them—much less one so charming and highly honoured. I barely had time to assimilate this astonishing new personage, when another equally disarming cousin appeared at the foot of the stairs and entered the room. She was twenty-four years old, and just as handsome and well-mannered as her younger brother; a true Celt in appearance, with her dark curly hair simply but fashionably arranged.
“You must be Charlotte,” exclaimed she in a sweet but lively voice, as she stopped before me and curtseyed. “I’m Mary Anna.” She walked with a slight limp, which, I learned, was the result of a riding accident as a child; but as she and every one else seemed completely unconscious of it—and it in no way hampered her energy or her ability to get around—I soon forgot all about it.
