Read Online Romancing Miss Bronte by Juliet Gael - Free Book Online Page B

better,” Charlotte said, trying to contain her enthusiasm.
    “We owe you a good deal of gratitude, Charlotte,” Anne pointed out. “You’ve managed all the business—finding us a publisher, and dealing with the printing, and the bank drafts. It was much more work than I had thought it would be.”
    “Yes, it’s all worked out rather well, hasn’t it.” Charlotte spoke quietly, trying to conceal her sense of inner triumph.
    They fell into a discussion of their novels—how they should submit them and to whom they might apply. Emily was concerned that the publishers might wish to meet them.
    “Branwell knows these things,” Emily said. “He was working on a novel last year. He knows all sorts of writers and artists in Halifax. Perhaps we could ask him—without letting on what we’re up to.”
    “What Branwell knows, we can find out,” Charlotte said flatly. “We managed on our own with our poems. We can do it with our novels. Aylott and Jones could give us some guidance. I’ll write to them.”
    They heard their brother on the stairs, calling for Charlotte: “Where is everyone? Damnably quiet in this house. Where are all the women?”
    Emily snatched the bottle and stashed it behind the bed.
    Charlotte opened the door.
    “There you are! Good Lord, what are you all doing up here? And you’ve got a fire going. Mustn’t let the old man see that.”
    He had dressed in a hurry, and he had the irritable, anxious look of a man who had gone too long without a drink.
    “What do you want, Branwell?”
    “I need ten shillings.”
    “Ten shillings?” Charlotte started.
    “I have business in Halifax … I need money for the train and my expenses,” he shot back impatiently.
    “It doesn’t cost ten shillings to go to Halifax.”
    “I’m staying with Leyland for several days. I have to pay him something for my meals, and I have some other business—”
    “I don’t have that much money on me. And I certainly wouldn’t hand it over without asking Papa, and he’s out at a meeting with the trustees.”
    “Papa said I was to have it, he told me last night … and then he forgot.”
    “Then you’ll have to wait until he returns.”
    Branwell hesitated, his forehead plunging into a deep frown. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a bundle of Lydia Robinson’s letters that he carried with him everywhere. Then he dug back into his pocket and fished around, finally coming up with a few coins. He spread his palm, and his hands shook while he counted his pennies.
    “Then just give me a shilling for now,” he muttered in an unsteady voice. He was trying not to plead.
    “I will not,” Charlotte said flatly. It made her heart ache to see him like this. “You’ll just spend it on drink.”
    He glared at her, his breathing quickening. His jaw tightened; then suddenly he drew back his fist and slammed it into the wall next to her head. Charlotte flinched, and Branwell bellowed in pain.
    “Charlotte!” Emily cried. She thought he had struck her and came racing into the hall.
    She found Charlotte on her knees, with Branwell writhing in pain. He was sitting on the floor with his head between his knees clutching his fist and trying not to cry.
    “I’ve broken it, damn it,” he wailed. “It’s my writing hand!”
    “Let me see it,” Charlotte insisted.
    “I’ll go get a cold cloth,” Anne said, and she ran downstairs.
    Emily stood over them, hands on hips, unmoved. “Writing hand, my eye,” she sniffed. “You can write with both hands, brother.”
    He threw her such a pathetic look that she softened, grudgingly, and knelt beside her sister. “What a stupid thing to do, Branwell.”
    “Show me your hand,” Charlotte repeated. He held it out for her to examine. The knuckles were bloodied and beginning to swell. When she tried to get him to open his fist he flinched, then said in a low, plaintive voice, “Please, Tally, if you love me at all, you’ll help me get a little money from Papa. He’ll give