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Authors: Juliet Gael
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half-tamed creature trapped in the body of a quaint little clergyman’s daughter.
Chapter Six
T hat winter, correspondence flew back and forth between C. Brontë, Esquire, of Haworth and the London publishers of Aylott & Jones. Their father was blind and Branwell far too self-absorbed to realize what was going on under his very nose. His senses were often dulled by gin, and when sober, he was irritable and obnoxious, and the sisters shunned his presence. He would occasionally happen on them in the dining room in the afternoon or evening, scribbling away in their little copybooks, and he thought they were just as they had always been. It irked him that they took no interest in the epic poem he was writing about Morley Hall, or the piece he had published in the
Halifax Guardian
.
In February, Charlotte put on her heavy shawl, concealing the two paper-wrapped parcels that contained the fair copy of their poems, and quietly slipped down the hill in the cold to deliver it to the postmaster’s cottage. When she returned, she found Emily and Anne waiting upstairs in the front bedroom, where they had lighted a fire.
“It’s done,” Charlotte whispered as she closed the door behind her.
“Lock the door,” Emily said.
When Charlotte had done so, Emily whipped out the bottle of port she had been concealing behind her skirt.
“Look what I took from the cellar!”
“Oh, you are one for mischief!” But Charlotte’s reproof was all bluff, and she wore a broad smile as she hung up her bonnet and smoothed down her hair.
Emily opened the bottle and poured each of them a little of the port,and they gathered in a circle before the fire and raised their glasses to one another.
“To the brothers Bell,” Charlotte pronounced solemnly. “Ellis, Acton, and Currer.”
“To the Bells!”
“May their humble efforts meet with some small degree of success.”
They started at the sudden sound of a door opening. Branwell had emerged from his room, and they stood frozen with their glasses in their hands, waiting while he clambered down the stairs to the kitchen for his breakfast.
When he had gone, Emily pulled a stool up to the fire and sat, warming her feet and sipping her port. She was quiet and reflective, but she wore a look of satisfaction that was almost a smile.
“We lit a fire,” Anne said apologetically.
“I think the expense is quite justified,” Charlotte reassured her.
“Oh, I do hope it all comes to something.”
“Even if it doesn’t, we shall have our verse in print, and as we’ve seen, that is no small accomplishment.”
“I had no idea it would be this difficult to find someone to publish us, even at our own expense.”
“Well, it’s done, and we have reason to be proud of ourselves.” She held out her glass and Anne smiled and refilled it.
“I passed Mr. Nicholls coming out of the school,” Charlotte said, “and I confess I was in such a spirited mood, I quite chatted the socks off him.” She sipped her port, remembering the baffled look on his face. “He honestly did not know what to make of me.”
“I think he rather likes you,” Anne said.
“Likes me?” Charlotte laughed. “He thinks I’m an old maid. Of no interest to him whatsoever.”
“Ellis, more port?” Anne said.
Emily twisted around on her stool, holding out her glass. Her face was flushed from the heat of the fire. She said, “I was thinking, we should move forward, just as we discussed. We must not stop here.”
“You mean with our novels?” Charlotte said.
“Yes.” She turned her gaze back to the fire and said quietly, “It really would be quite wonderful, wouldn’t it, if we could earn our living like this? Doing what we’ve done this past year. We would all be at home together, and we could take care of Papa. We wouldn’t need a school.” She took a sip of her port and added, “I never liked the idea, really. I didn’t like the idea of having strangers live here with us.”
“Oh, this is much
Chapter Six
T hat winter, correspondence flew back and forth between C. Brontë, Esquire, of Haworth and the London publishers of Aylott & Jones. Their father was blind and Branwell far too self-absorbed to realize what was going on under his very nose. His senses were often dulled by gin, and when sober, he was irritable and obnoxious, and the sisters shunned his presence. He would occasionally happen on them in the dining room in the afternoon or evening, scribbling away in their little copybooks, and he thought they were just as they had always been. It irked him that they took no interest in the epic poem he was writing about Morley Hall, or the piece he had published in the
Halifax Guardian
.
In February, Charlotte put on her heavy shawl, concealing the two paper-wrapped parcels that contained the fair copy of their poems, and quietly slipped down the hill in the cold to deliver it to the postmaster’s cottage. When she returned, she found Emily and Anne waiting upstairs in the front bedroom, where they had lighted a fire.
“It’s done,” Charlotte whispered as she closed the door behind her.
“Lock the door,” Emily said.
When Charlotte had done so, Emily whipped out the bottle of port she had been concealing behind her skirt.
“Look what I took from the cellar!”
“Oh, you are one for mischief!” But Charlotte’s reproof was all bluff, and she wore a broad smile as she hung up her bonnet and smoothed down her hair.
Emily opened the bottle and poured each of them a little of the port,and they gathered in a circle before the fire and raised their glasses to one another.
“To the brothers Bell,” Charlotte pronounced solemnly. “Ellis, Acton, and Currer.”
“To the Bells!”
“May their humble efforts meet with some small degree of success.”
They started at the sudden sound of a door opening. Branwell had emerged from his room, and they stood frozen with their glasses in their hands, waiting while he clambered down the stairs to the kitchen for his breakfast.
When he had gone, Emily pulled a stool up to the fire and sat, warming her feet and sipping her port. She was quiet and reflective, but she wore a look of satisfaction that was almost a smile.
“We lit a fire,” Anne said apologetically.
“I think the expense is quite justified,” Charlotte reassured her.
“Oh, I do hope it all comes to something.”
“Even if it doesn’t, we shall have our verse in print, and as we’ve seen, that is no small accomplishment.”
“I had no idea it would be this difficult to find someone to publish us, even at our own expense.”
“Well, it’s done, and we have reason to be proud of ourselves.” She held out her glass and Anne smiled and refilled it.
“I passed Mr. Nicholls coming out of the school,” Charlotte said, “and I confess I was in such a spirited mood, I quite chatted the socks off him.” She sipped her port, remembering the baffled look on his face. “He honestly did not know what to make of me.”
“I think he rather likes you,” Anne said.
“Likes me?” Charlotte laughed. “He thinks I’m an old maid. Of no interest to him whatsoever.”
“Ellis, more port?” Anne said.
Emily twisted around on her stool, holding out her glass. Her face was flushed from the heat of the fire. She said, “I was thinking, we should move forward, just as we discussed. We must not stop here.”
“You mean with our novels?” Charlotte said.
“Yes.” She turned her gaze back to the fire and said quietly, “It really would be quite wonderful, wouldn’t it, if we could earn our living like this? Doing what we’ve done this past year. We would all be at home together, and we could take care of Papa. We wouldn’t need a school.” She took a sip of her port and added, “I never liked the idea, really. I didn’t like the idea of having strangers live here with us.”
“Oh, this is much
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