Romancing Miss Bronte (18 page)

“There are so many people who are dying to meet you—very important men like Thackeray and Mr. Lewes. I shall have them both to dinner.”

“Mr. Smith, please, before you make any more plans …” She hesitated, and her voice softened with regret. “We would very much love to meet all these great and influential persons, but they cannot know who we are.”

George frowned and set down his cup.

“But I cannot get men like Thackeray on such short notice without telling him whom he will be meeting. I’m afraid I must let him in on our secret.”

“Then I regret to say we must decline. You must understand, Mr. Smith, that this is not merely a whim or an affectation on my part. It has been my brother Ellis’s condition from the beginning that we remain anonymous. And I must, out of loyalty, abide by his wishes. I gave him an oath.”

George looked crestfallen, and Charlotte felt his disappointment as keenly as her own. She added gently, “Sir, you must know that I am a great admirer of these gentlemen. The thought of being in the same room with them and conversing with them is more temptation than I should have to bear.” She folded her hands calmly and said, “Sir, even our own father has been ignorant of our success—until several months ago, when Ellis … and my sister Anne here both gave me permission to inform him that I was the author of
Jane Eyre
. He still does not know that they have both written books.”

It was beginning to dawn on George that he had a most unusual author on his hands.

“But what am I to do? I can’t let you leave without tasting a bit of your own celebrity, Miss Brontë…. I may call you Miss Brontë, may I not?”

“You may, sir, but only you and Mr. Williams, and only in private. It is our secret,” Charlotte said, implying an intimacy that she was beginning to enjoy.

George was having a difficult time letting go of his plans to parade Currer Bell around town—particularly since the two authors were so ridiculously unlike the “coarse and vulgar” creatures the critics had begun to portray; indeed, he thought he had never met a woman as delicate and demure as Charlotte Brontë. He had read her letters to Mr. Williams, and he knew her to be not only of an exceptional intellect, but unwaveringly honest and bold in her opinions. Yet here she sat, her tiny hands folded over the gloves in the lap of her skirt, with just a whisper of an Irish accent and keenly observant dark eyes, the very epitome of a sweet-mannered clergyman’s daughter. He thought the entire situation was too beautifully ironic to be ignored, but ignore it they must.

Bit by bit they inched toward agreement: the sisters were to be known only as the Misses Brown, visiting from the country. They would be collected at their lodgings and driven by carriage wherever they wished to go; they would dine at the home of Mr. Smith and come to tea at the home of Mr. Williams. And Mr. Smith would call on them that evening, with his mother and sisters.

From Cornhill, Charlotte and Anne took a cab directly to Newby’s office in Cavendish Square. By that time, Charlotte’s headache had come on with a vengeance and she was not inclined to be polite to him. In the cab on the way back to Paternoster Row, Anne commented that Mr. Newby had seemed a little terrified of her, which Charlotte thought was not a bad thing.

The room was hot and stuffy, even with the window open. Charlotte lay in bed in her camisole and petticoat, with a damp cloth over her eyes.
Not a sound came from the street below.

“What are you doing?” she murmured to her sister.

“Reading one of the books Mr. Smith gave to you.”

“Us. He gave them to us.”

“Stay quiet, Tally. You must get over this headache before tonight.”

“You don’t think he means for us to attend the opera with them, do you?”

“I think he does.”

She groaned.

“Are you still nauseated?”

“Yes, very.”

Anne rose, removed the cloth from Charlotte’s head, dipped it in the basin of cool water, and wrung it out.

“We don’t need to go if you’re not well.”

“Of course we do. It would be terribly impolite to refuse. And besides, you’ve never been to the opera. It would be a pity to miss it.”

Anne laid the wet cloth gently over Charlotte’s eyes. “I can live without it.”

Charlotte groped for her hand and kissed it. “You’d give up anything for anyone, I do think.”

Anne sat on the edge of the bed, still holding her sister’s hand. “This is a very important time for you. I should not want to do anything to spoil it.”

“You do realize how ridiculous we’ll look in those dull dresses that come all the way up to our ears.”

“Hush,” Anne whispered. She gave Charlotte’s hand a little squeeze and returned to her chair near the window.

After a moment, Charlotte peeled back the cloth and peered at her sister through heavy-lidded eyes. There was a twist of humor in her voice when she said, “To think we’re as old as we are and we’ve never bared our shoulders.”

“I should feel quite uncomfortable doing so.”

“So should I.”

“We must appear so odd to them.”

Anne lowered her book and smiled. “We are who we are.”

“I kept glancing down at my gloves while I was sitting in his office. I was trying to hide them. They’re so worn, and I’ve tried everything to remove the stains.”

“Well, you took care of that. We have new ones now. And new parasols.”

“Goodness, what will Papa say to such frivolous purchases? Kid gloves!”

“They are not frivolous, Tally, and besides, you bought them with your money.”

“It’s our money. It’s for all of us.”

Anne rose again and refreshed the cloth; then she patted Charlotte’s hand and said, “I’ll go down and check the time.”

“Yes, do. We want to be waiting when they arrive.”

Charlotte lifted the cloth and caught Anne on her way out.

“He’s a handsome man, isn’t he?”

Anne smiled. “Very. Very handsome indeed.”

Charlotte lay back into the pillow. “And we should try to sponge the wrinkles out of our dresses.”

They sat in the bay window in the stale-smelling meeting room, all alone, watching the street below. It was summer and light still brightened the western sky, but there was nothing but shadow on Paternoster Row. The elderly waiter had brought up a lamp for them, and here they waited.

Squinting through her spectacles, Charlotte could make out a small party coming down the dark street.

“Might it be them?”

“Yes, yes, I think so—the ladies are wearing evening gowns.”

“Oh, goodness—the carriage can’t come into the Row. How inconvenient for them. How embarrassing!”

“It’s all right.”

“Look,” Charlotte said, peering through the narrow window. “Look how elegant.” She pressed her face closer, so that her breath fogged the cool pane. “What is she wearing in her hair?”

“It looks like a wreath.”

Turning suddenly to Anne, she cried, “Take the flower out of my hair.”

“But why?”

“It’s all wrong.”

“It’s pretty.”

“I look like a clown.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Just take it out, please.”

She had removed a faded silk flower from her bonnet and fastened it to her hair with a comb. Now she fumbled for it with nervous fingers.

Anne calmly removed the flower. “How’s your head?”

“Throbbing.”

“You’d better take another whiff of your smelling salts.”

“Good grief, brother dear, where are you taking us?” Eliza exclaimed. She was a large dark-haired woman two years older than George. Yet she deferred to her brother in all matters and dutifully did his bidding, as they all did, although she reserved the right to make her opinions known. She released his arm to gather up her fragile tulle skirt and mountains of petticoats, treading cautiously along the flagstones in her blue satin slippers.

“What a miserable little place.”

“This is quite well known, actually. Used to be a favorite haunt of authors back in its prime.”

Sarah, who hung on her brother’s other arm, was seventeen and had just come out this year. Like her sister, she had inherited her father’s heavy, horsey features, but she had her brother’s buoyant good nature. She glanced up at the sign for the Chapter Coffee House and said, “So we
are
meeting an author.”

“No, little Sassy, they are the relations of a very important friend of mine. They are simple country ladies, and I expect you two to be on your most gracious behavior toward them.”

Sarah pinched his arm. “Oh, please don’t call me little Sassy, George, not in front of them.”

Eliza gave a whimper and muttered, “My shoes are all soiled.”

Inside, they followed an elderly servant up the broad, shallow staircase.

“This place is ancient,” Sarah whispered to her sister, ogling the wainscoting and heavy beams. “It looks like it belongs somewhere in the wilds of Scotland.”

The waiter led them into the low, long room and with his candle indicated the two women huddled across the room on the window seat.

“Misses Brown,” George exclaimed, sweeping off his blocked silk hat and striding toward them.

Charlotte rose to greet him, and in the glow of his earnest admiration she forgot her plainness and her homemade dress, and her self-consciousness momentarily faded away.

Mr. Williams was waiting in the carriage for them. Once they had settled in, George rapped on the roof and they pulled away. Four women in petticoats gave cause for a little joking—George complained that he was drowning in organdy and lace—and Charlotte, feeling suddenly chatty, popped off with a self-mocking witticism about her high-necked dress. This provoked boisterous laughter from Sarah, who had a quick sense of humor.

Mr. Williams smiled kindly and leaned forward to whisper, “Miss Brown, you have earned the right to appear in public however you desire.”

Eliza had remained distant, with a slightly condescending air, but she overheard the comment and darted a quizzical look at Charlotte. It dawned on her that whoever this plain little woman was, she was definitely important.

In the midst of all the mystery, tulle, and perfume, Charlotte found her tongue, and she fell into a witty banter with little Sassy and talked all the way to the opera.

Never again would Charlotte enjoy her celebrity as much as she did
that night. She descended from the carriage on George Smith’s arm, and together they climbed the red-carpeted stairs toward the lobby. Mr. Williams escorted Anne, and as they mounted the stairs beside her, Charlotte pressed George’s arm with a trembling hand and whispered, “We’re not accustomed to this kind of thing, you know. It’s all very grand.”

Heads turned to stare at the two provincial-looking ladies escorted by one of the most eligible bachelors in London. Gentlemen smiled and tipped their tall silk hats. Ladies dressed in sprawling gowns fanned themselves and glanced their way, arching their long, bare necks in attitudes of bored condescension. Young women whispered behind gloved hands, and their mothers cast sharp, appraising eyes on the queer little woman with George Smith. George paraded her through their midst with a proud smile, and it was only nervousness that kept Charlotte’s giddiness in check.

George leaned down and whispered to her, “I would imagine everyone here has read
Jane Eyre
, or at least would pretend they had done so, and if they had any idea who you were, they’d be fawning all over you.”

Charlotte beamed up at him and whispered in reply, “I regret I cannot give you that pleasure, sir.”

“Oh, but I am enjoying our little secret, Miss Brown.”

George astutely managed to avoid the clusters of his acquaintances, and he herded their party through the crowded lobby and toward the stairs to their box.

At the bottom of the great staircase, as his famous author paused to gather up her skirts, George Smith glanced down on the coils of her dark hair glistening in the light of the candelabras and an unexpected wave of tenderness swept through him. Then she looked up at him with sparkling dark eyes and took his arm. Her touch was as light as a leaf.

During the opera, when the lights were low and her face illuminated by the stage, he was able to observe her more easily. She had a disconcerting habit of looking down when she spoke, so that it was difficult to see her face, and he had the impression that she was ashamed of her physical appearance. But when attention was not on her, those fine eyes
sharply observed everything around her. Now, glancing at her under the cover of darkness, he thought about the story of
Jane Eyre
, which had brought her such fame. Her book had been written with such passion, and the love between the man and the woman was so heartfelt and true. He thought there must have been a man somewhere in her past, a man she had loved deeply, and he suspected that her love had not been returned.

They departed on Tuesday morning, after a whirlwind of dinners and teas at the homes of George Smith and Mr. Williams and a rushed visit to the Royal Academy and the National Gallery, which delighted Anne and brought back bittersweet memories of Brussels to Charlotte. George drove them to the train early that morning, shook their hands, and sent them off laden with books, which was the only gift Currer Bell would accept from her publisher.

The train had already left the station when the door to their compartment opened and they were greeted noisily by an old clergy friend of their father’s. He stumbled into their compartment, struggling with a small bag, which he heaved onto the overhead rack. He plopped down into the empty seat next to the window, complaining of the heat and the crowds, and declared himself blessed to have found a compartment with agreeable companions.

“First class is always preferable,” he said, fanning himself with his round hat, “but it’s not always practical, is it?” He breathed heavily on them for a while, dabbing at the sweat glistening beneath the white stubble on his cheeks. But no sooner had he caught his breath than he shot back up, dug around in his case overhead, withdrew a book, and sat down. It was
Jane Eyre
.

Without apologies, he settled his reading glasses on his nose and opened the book to a marked page.