The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë by Laura Joh Rowland Page A

Oh, cruel world! I’m dying, and nobody cares! Oh, my dear, lost Lydia!”
    “Be quiet!” I shouted, incensed, because I have suffered a far greater loss.
    Our commotion brought Papa hurrying to us. Branwell launched himself from the bed and fell on his knees in front of Papa. “Father, I need money. Please, you must help me!”
    Papa shook his head in sorrow. “I’ve already spent a fortune paying your debts. I’ll not indulge you anymore.”
    Desperate cunning shone in Branwell’s eyes. “If you won’t help me, I’ll kill myself!”
    He snatched a razor from the dresser; I grabbed his wrist. We struggled together in a mad dance, Branwell trying to slash his throat, I trying to prevent him. “Let me end my miserable life!” he screamed.
    Perhaps I should, thought I. Perhaps I should afterward turn the weapon on myself—then neither of us need suffer more. But Papa wrested the razor away from Branwell. We locked him inside the room. He pounded on the door, ranting in maniacal fury. I went to the kitchen and began kneading bread dough, trying to distract myself from Branwell’s uproar and my own worries.
    Where are Anne and Charlotte? Come back, come back! my heart silently calls to them. But still I burn with my fury at their betrayal. Perhaps I should not mind so much if only I could write! But I cannot. Many are the stories begun since I wrote Wuthering Heights —all abandoned incomplete. Whenever I now try to write, I hear the damning words of the critics. They trumpet that my novel “shows the brutalizing influence of unchecked passion.” They revile my characters as “most revolting to our feelings.” What misery is mine! I can only pretend to work, covering pages with ramblings like these, while inspiration hides behind a locked door inside me. Fortunate Charlotte, who enjoys travel and is writing a new book! Fortunate Anne, who has published a second novel! Oh, my heart shall break!
    Such bewilderment and consternation did Emily’s words cause me! How could she consider the mortal sin of taking her own life? Had I but known of her pain, I would have been more sensitive towards her. But she never gave me a clue. She always appeared supremely confident of her talent, as well she should have been: Her poems and stories were things of splendor that never failed to move me. In literary expertise she was the leader, my idol, even though I was her elder. And I never suspected that she cared what the critics said; she seemed so indifferent to public opinion, even during her youth. When Emily was seventeen, she came with me to Roe Head School where I taught. As eccentric in appearance as ever, she was the target of bullies, from whom I could not always protect her. But she never flinched at their tormenting. She held her head high, a soldier in an enemy prison camp. How I admired her! My weakness is that I always want people to like me—and my work—even when I care not for them. How I wished I could follow Emily’s example!
    But now I understand that her attitude sheltered a tender soul. Emily pretended to scorn the critics while she bled inside from their harsh comments about Wuthering Heights . She hid her wounds from me.
    When Anne and I at last returned to Haworth, we hurried into the kitchen, where Emily was kneading bread dough.
    “Emily!” Anne cried. “How I’ve missed you!”
    Emily glared. She showed no sign that she’d missed us or worried about us. Anne’s smile faded.
    “Has all been well here while we were gone?” I asked anxiously. Emily behaved as though she had not heard me.
    Anne offered our sister the book she had purchased in London. “We’ve brought you a present—it’s Tennyson’s poems.”
    When Emily made no move to take the gift, Anne sighed and laid it on the table. Anne and I could only exchange worried glances and silently agree that we had best leave her alone until her mood passed. We crept out of the kitchen.

    Two days after that unhappy homecoming, a spell of