Cathy’s account swept away the entire basis of Wuthering Heights by recounting that Cathy truly loved Edgar Linton and not Heathcliff. Her version made Edgar appear a far more worthy figure, exposed Nelly as a manipulative and murdering monster, and stripped Heathcliff of all the romance that had made him so memorable a literary figure. I felt the manuscript had the ring of authenticity but I could not begin to think why Nelly should have preserved it, given its contents. Surely it would have been in her interests to destroy such evidence of her heinous activities?
I did not take any immediate action because this was a difficult time for both Charlotte and me. I was upset because my mother had been unwell for some time and I feared that I would shortly become homeless. I therefore agreed to take up the offer of distant relations who lived in Suffolk to undertake an experimental visit with them in May. I assumed that, if the outcome of my visit were satisfactory, they would in a sense adopt me. Unfortunately it transpired that they only wanted me as an unpaid servant and so I ended up fleeing their house. In Charlotte’s case, she was upset that Mr Nicholls had announced that he was resigning as her father’s curate and therefore leaving Haworth. This was because her father had treated him very harshly for having had the temerity to propose to her. She wrote to me of how on his last day she had initially thought it best not to see him, but then relented when she caught sight of him standing for the last time outside her house:
Remembering his long grief I took courage and went out trembling and miserable. I found him leaning against the garden door in a paroxysm of anguish, sobbing as women never sob. Of course I went straight to him. Very few words were interchanged and those few barely articulate … Poor fellow! He wanted such hope and such encouragement as I could not give him. Still I trust he must know now that I am not cruelly blind and indifferent to his constancy and grief … However, he is gone – gone – and there’s an end to it.
If I had been in a calmer frame of mind, my reply to her letter might have been more politic, but, as it was, I wrote back saying that she should, like me, resolve herself to spinsterhood and that Mr Nicholls was not worth a moment’s thought. In the same letter I told her about Cathy’s letter, thinking it would give her something else to think about. Charlotte was incensed by my insensitivity to Mr Nicholls’ position. She told me to destroy Cathy’s letter and to count myself no more her friend. What was worse, she wrote to mutual friends saying that I hated the thought of her finding a husband when I could not. This cruel and undeserved lie caused me much pain and all correspondence between us ceased. I locked away Cathy’s account, unable to decide what I should do with a document whose accuracy I could not verify.
It was not until the autumn of 1853 that, annoyed by Charlotte’s continuing silence, I decided to undertake some investigative work on Cathy’s letter. The obvious starting point was to see if I could make contact with the doctor mentioned in her account. My initial enquiries quickly uncovered that there had been a doctor called Wroughton but that he had died many years ago and his son was working as a doctor in Leeds. I decided that I should visit this man on the chance that his father might have spoken to him about Wuthering Heights. Dr John Wroughton proved to be a fine-looking man, smartly dressed, dark haired and very clean cut, and it was not long before I appreciated that here was a man of real integrity. Unfortunately, it soon became obvious that he knew absolutely nothing of the matter that I was seeking to investigate. His father had died many years earlier and he had never spoken to his son about the Lintons. I feared therefore that my journey had been wasted.
However, my initial dismay was fortunately soon dispelled because Dr Wroughton then informed me that he held in his possession some of the journals that his father had written. These he took down from a shelf in his study and he permitted me to see if I could find anything of value. Fortunately the volume for 1783 was intact and my laboured efforts to decipher the at times difficult handwriting proved worthwhile. With Dr Wroughton’s permission, I transcribed the following extracts, which date between March and June of that year. You will see that the passages raised an entirely new and totally unexpected issue:
Today I attended Mrs Linton again. Her pregnancy is going well. Having given her a close examination, I suspect she may be expecting twins, but I have not told her lest I am mistaken. This family deserves what happiness it can have because we all know the terrible fate that has befallen Mr Linton’s poor sister. All that I hear of the behaviour of Heathcliff Earnshaw since he took over that farmhouse from his half-brother Hindley is to his detriment. The man is a monster!
I was summoned to deal with an emergency at Thrushcross Grange today. Mrs Linton went into labour four weeks early. I have been telling her to be careful and the foolish woman has over-exerted herself. The whole house appeared in uproar. I gather that Heathcliff Earnshaw had earlier forced himself into the house. What is wrong with that man! Poor Edgar Linton was distraught with anxiety.
I needed help and summoned a woman called Nelly Dean to assist me. Mr Linton objected but I overrode him, saying I needed a woman with nursing experience and it was no time to let petty differences endanger a mother. I was right in my judgement because Nelly proved a most able assistant. I am not sure that I would have succeeded in bringing both the babies into this world without her skilful help. Even so the two girls were puny little things and I feared neither of them would survive. I handed them both over to Nelly with strict instructions as to how she should care for them whilst I gave my undivided attention to Mrs Linton.
For the next couple of hours I did all I could but it was to no avail. Poor Mrs Linton died without ever gaining consciousness. I sat with my head in my hands and wept. How can life be so cruel to one so lovely! She was not yet twenty years old! Even as I mourned, Nelly returned with the news that one of the baby girls had sadly died, though the remaining baby was clinging to life. She suggested that we spare Mr Linton the pain of another death and let him think there had only been one child born. She said she would dispose of the dead child so none would ever know of its existence. Overwrought at the loss of the mother I nodded my agreement without really thinking of the consequences. At the time it seemed an act of kindness. Now I am sure that what I did was very, very wrong. How could I as a Christian give no thought to the fact that the baby deserved a proper Christian burial with her mother? What right had I to deny Edgar Linton knowing the truth? I hope God may forgive me.
What makes this matter even worse is that I cannot now tell the truth. It would destroy my reputation! What on earth possessed me! I should never have listened to Nelly Dean, however well-meaning her suggestion. All I can now do is pray daily for the soul of the poor lost child.
Am I going mad? One of my patients told me he had seen Heathcliff Earnshaw and Nelly Dean entering a hired carriage with a tiny babe wrapped in swaddling clothes. Has that woman deceived me? Did both twins survive? Why did I not ask to see the lifeless child? Has she now given one of Cathy’s daughters to Heathcliff? What possible purpose would that serve and surely she could not be that deceitful and cruel? I keep saying to myself the bundle was probably something else. That is what I told my informant and she fortunately has believed me. She has assured me that she will not tell others of what she thought she saw.
I continue to sleep badly. I cannot get out of my head my concern over what I allowed to happen at Thrushcross Grange. I have made guarded enquiries and, as far as I can tell, Heathcliff and Nelly Dean have gone south to Penzance in Cornwall. Why should they go so far away?
Heathcliff Earnshaw is back! I must go and see him.
Today I went to Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff agreed to see me. I asked him about the child. He declined to answer my questions, but the very fact he has not denied the existence of the child makes me believe he has indeed taken it. But to where and for what purpose? The man is insane. What am I to do? I am powerless. Even if I risk my reputation and now inform Mr Linton, I have not a shred of proof the child ever existed. Though it grieves me to the heart, I must therefore force myself to stop thinking about what I have let happen or I will go mad.
After reading these extracts, I was convinced that Cathy’s account was a truthful one, but like the doctor, I could not imagine what bizarre motive had lain behind the actions of Nelly Dean and Heathcliff in abducting a baby. I assumed the journey to Penzance was linked to its disposal, possibly to some relative of Heathcliff if there was any truth in the tale that his mother originated from Cornwall. In reflecting on that possibility, it suddenly occurred to me that Charlotte’s mother had come from Penzance. Unlikely as it seemed, was there a possible connection between Heathcliff Earnshaw and the Brontë family? Travelling as far as Cornwall on what was likely to be a wild goose-chase seemed a very unattractive proposition unless I had more to go on. I began dredging my memory to recall all that I had been told about the past history of Charlotte’s parents, in case that provided me with any clues.
It soon dawned on me that Charlotte had talked to me far more about her father than her mother. She had been proud of the way that he had achieved so much from very humble origins. Born one of ten children in a poor farming family in the tiny village of Drumballyroney in County Down, Patrick Brunty (as he was then known) had studied as best he could from the limited resources at his disposal and become a teacher in the village school. The local vicar had encouraged him to seek ordination and, having taught him the classical knowledge that was required for entry to university, obtained a free place for him at St John’s College in Cambridge. Charlotte’s father had then become one of the university’s top students and had changed his name to Brontë in order to symbolize his determination to place behind him the poverty of Ireland once and for all. At the age of thirty, he had successfully obtained ordination in the Church of England. I suspect a more career-minded man would have ensured that he took up a parish in London, where his abilities would have more easily come to the attention of those who matter in issues of ecclesiastical preferment. However, Mr Brontë had chosen instead to link himself with the despised evangelical wing of the Church and to accept a position in the industrial heartland of England. He had first taken a curacy in the tiny Shropshire town of Wellington, and then moved to Yorkshire, eventually ending up as Vicar of Haworth.
All I knew about Maria Branwell, Charlotte’s mother, was that she had come up from Penzance in 1812 to help an aunt run the domestic side of a new Methodist school called Woodhouse Grove at Apperley Bridge. Her uncle, John Fennell, had been appointed as its first headmaster. There she had met Patrick Brontë and, after a whirlwind romance, married him. She was twenty-nine and he was thirty-five at the time, but this did not prevent them having six children before Maria’s agonizing death from cancer in September 1821. Charlotte had often told me how her father had personally tended his wife every night throughout her illness. Because my conflict with Charlotte prevented me asking her more questions about her mother, I opted to try and visit Woodhouse Grove School. I gathered that its governor, a Methodist minister called William Lord, had been at the school for a number of years and it was my hope that he might have talked with many who knew both Maria Branwell and Patrick Brontë. I therefore wrote seeking an interview, stating that I was undertaking some research into Charlotte Brontë’s parents for a possible forthcoming biography of the authoress. He replied saying that he was very willing to share what limited knowledge he had, but I had to bear in mind he could only provide information that was second-hand.
Thus on a very cold but sunny morning in January 1854, I found myself on the train that runs between Leeds and Bradford. Mr Lord had informed me that the station at Apperley Bridge was situated not more than forty or fifty yards away from the entrance to his school; I would not have ventured forth without such reassurance because of the heavy snow that had fallen. One of the school servants was awaiting my arrival as the train pulled into the tiny platform. He was armed with a pair of heel spikes which he attached to my shoes. Together we slowly ascended from the deep cutting in which the railway station was set and I soon found myself facing a park-like entrance. The snow hid its carriage-drive but, as we walked along, the high ground that was covered with beech trees gave way on my right to a beautiful open view across the vale of Apperley. It made me stop in admiration. I could see in the distance the meandering River Aire and beyond that snow-covered hills sparkling in the sunlight. The crisp air was invigorating and I wondered whether I should take that as a sign my forthcoming meeting would prove an auspicious one.
The winding nature of the drive meant it was only towards the end of our walk that the school came into sight. I knew Woodhouse Grove served the educational needs of the sons of the Methodist clergy and, given the relative poverty of that movement, I was not expecting much. I was therefore very surprised to see before me a very impressive building with an imposing stone façade that was made even more beautiful by the snow that surrounded it. It was only afterwards explained to me that this magnificent mansion, which had yet to be officially opened, was not the building that Patrick Brontë and Maria Branwell had known. It owed its existence entirely to the new railway upon which I had arrived. Apparently the Methodists had been paid compensation for the line passing through their estate and they had used this money to fund extensive improvements, including creating the school’s new and very attractive south-facing frontage and building new wings to both east and west.
Such was the extent of the new work that I found it hard to imagine what the place had been like when Maria Branwell first crossed its threshold. From what I could gather, the original main building had simply been an old manor house that was not much suited to educational use. The servant who had accompanied me led me into an impressive library where Mr Lord was waiting. He rose to greet me and we exchanged initial pleasantries. I was struck with the fact he was a ‘big’ man in every sense of the word, large in girth, rugged in appearance, and domineering in manner. His close-cropped hair was white and his facial features were firmly set and strongly marked, with an austerity that only occasionally relaxed into a genial smile and sparkling eye. Though his voice was sweetly toned, his manner betrayed he had an inner steeliness to him. My escort had informed me that the governor was in the process of successfully engineering the removal of the school’s long-serving headmaster, with whom he had fallen out. I suspected that he was not a man who liked anyone disagreeing with him.
‘I am afraid, Miss Nussey, that you find us in a state of upheaval at present,’ he said, ‘and not just because the work on this building is only just nearing completion. We are also in the process of acquiring a new headmaster. I have my eye on a man called Dr Sharpe.’
‘In the circumstances, sir, I am very appreciative of the fact you are prepared to give me some of your valuable time.’
‘I am very happy to tell you what I have heard, though I suspect that it will be far less than you desire. I hope you will not view your journey here as a waste of time.’
‘I can assure you, sir,’ I replied, ‘that anything you can tell me will be appreciated, however little.’
‘Well, let me start at the beginning,’ he said. ‘When Woodhouse Grove opened in January 1812 it had only nine pupils but within less than a year it had sixty. I have spoken with some of them and they all speak highly of Mr Fennell. There is no doubt he regarded this school as a house specially created to serve God’s purposes, a place where the young could be prepared not only for this world but also for the one to come. He prayed that God might help him nurse the lambs of his flock and he took great pleasure in hearing children pray and speak of the work of God on their hearts. His wife acted as the school’s housekeeper but I am told she was not very good in this role. Even with the help of her daughter, Jane, she found the task of feeding, clothing and organizing the boys very onerous and, as a consequence, Maria Branwell was sent for. Apart from the family connection, she was well known to Mr Fennell because he had been once her teacher in Penzance. She arrived in June 1812 just in time to meet Mr Brontë, who had taken on the role of school inspector.’
‘Pardon me for interrupting, but I do not understand how Mr Brontë came to be associated with a Methodist school?’ I interjected.
‘That is easy to explain, Miss Nussey. When Mr Brontë was first ordained he accepted a curacy working in the Shropshire town of Wellington, which is near to the immense coal and iron works of Ironbridge and Coalbrookdale. He witnessed the impressive work of the Methodists in that region and made friends with a number of them, including Mr Fennell, who at that time was master of a day school in Wellington. In 1809 Mr Brontë moved to this region as a curate in Dewsbury, which also had a flourishing Methodist society, and then, in 1811, he became curate in nearby Hartshead cum Clifton. It was natural for Mr Fennell to renew their acquaintance and seek his help. It was agreed Mr Brontë would inspect the quality of the classics teaching and he did a good job on that.’
‘Why do you think Maria Branwell was so attracted to Mr Brontë?’
‘From the reports I have heard, Maria was neither pretty nor young. She was quite short in stature and very plain in looks, but what she lacked in appearance she made up for in money. Her parents had recently died and left her possessed of a small income of her own. She doubtless hoped this wealth might attract a suitor and I think there is no doubt that she set herself to capture Mr Brontë as a husband – and, of course, she succeeded. He thought her intelligent, pious and witty. Their courtship took place at a time when there was massive opposition to the introduction of machinery into the factories around here, but the presence of rioting mobs did not prevent him walking the dozen or so miles from Hartshead to here, and then back again, almost every day so he could see her. I have heard it said that Maria Branwell began to nickname him “her saucy Pat”, but I find that hard to believe as she was a former pupil of Mr Fennell and he always inculcated that women should be grave and serious in manner and speech.’
‘I think, Reverend Lord, there are very few romances that take place without some conversation of that kind.’
He smiled in response. ‘Perhaps you are right, Miss Nussey. And love was certainly in the air because their romance was not the only one taking place here. Mr Brontë’s closest friend from his time at Wellington, William Morgan, had become the curate of the Reverend Crosse in Bradford and he was simultaneously courting Mr Fennell’s daughter, Jane. Both couples were married in a double wedding at the end of December.’
‘And did they keep any connection with this place?’
‘No, because Mr Fennell ceased to be headmaster of Woodhouse Grove. He was deeply unhappy by the decision of the 1812 Methodist Conference to separate itself from the Church of England. After much soul-searching, he announced it was his intention to seek ordination in the Church of England and, as a consequence, he was promptly dismissed from his post. He and his wife moved to Bradford and he encouraged both Mr Brontë and Mr Morgan to undertake evangelical work there. In 1815 Mr Brontë agreed to become perpetual curate of the Old Bell Chapel in Thornton, which is about four miles from Bradford. It offered him a rent-free parsonage to live in and an opportunity to mix with some more genteel society.’
‘So why did the family move to the far more isolated Haworth?’
‘Quite simply because the size of his family demanded Mr Brontë should seek a more lucrative post. The parsonage was not large enough for his growing family. Moreover, by 1820 working in Bradford had lost much of its appeal and Haworth offered a fresh challenge. It is a busy place with many needs to be met, and although you describe it as isolated it is only a dozen miles away from Bradford, Halifax and Burnley. It also brought the family close to Halifax, where Mr Fennell had moved to become a vicar. As you are probably aware, the two men kept in very close touch until Mr Fennell died in 1841.’
‘Do you think Mrs Brontë liked living here in Yorkshire?’
‘Yorkshire is a bleak place compared to the area in which she grew up and living surrounded by moorland can be overbearing. I do not need to tell you that there is always a cold wind here. I think almost certainly she missed her hometown and the far warmer climate of Cornwall, but she had no choice but to stay once she was married.’
‘And do you think she and her husband were happily married?’
‘Who knows what lies at the heart of any marriage other than the couple themselves?’
‘There are often signs that outsiders can see.’
‘I am not one to listen to gossip, Miss Nussey.’
I feared that I might have offended him. ‘No,’ I said, ‘but I am sure you have your own considered view on the matter. You strike me as a man of insight.’
He appreciated the compliment but still hesitated before saying, ‘For what it is worth, I suspect that Mrs Brontë found the atmosphere in her home oppressive. She had been attracted to her husband like a moth to a flame, but she found her lively nature was soon scorched. Mr Brontë was a dedicated and conscientious minister but he was a difficult man and I can personally vouch for the fact that on the one occasion we met I found his behaviour at times quite strange. I have no doubt he could be affable and considerate and generous – and I am sure all those qualities were at the fore when he courted Maria Branwell. However, I am equally certain that, when he chose, he could be domineering, stubborn and self-centred. I suspect it was those less happy aspects of his character that became increasingly apparent once they were married.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Tales abound that when he was angry he would repeatedly fire his gun or set fire to the house rugs or even saw off the backs of chairs. It is said that on one occasion he objected to a dress that Mrs Brontë had bought and he took a pair of scissors to it, hacking off its sleeves. Although I refuse to give credence to such malicious nonsense, I suspect they have a basis in truth. There is no doubt that he had a flaming temper and that, when roused, he was capable of behaving very unpleasantly to those around him.’
‘From my own experience of Mr Brontë, I do not think his temper is his only problem. I have seen the way he often seeks seclusion in his study rather than spend time with his family.’
‘Men of God have to spend much time in study and prayer, Miss Nussey. You should not forget that. But I suspect you are right in thinking he liked the silence of his own company.’
In my imagination I envisaged what all this meant. Mr Brontë might have shown a more sociable side when he was courting Maria Branwell, but then, like many a man who has gained what he wanted, he reverted to his true nature. ‘And what is your impression of how Mrs Brontë coped with such behaviour from her husband?’ I asked.
‘She turned for affection to her children and she loved to socialize. Her father had been a successful merchant and I gather his house was always full of people. At Thornton I know Mrs Brontë became especially friendly with Miss Elizabeth Firth of Kipping House. I suspect she unburdened herself to her more than any other, even though Miss Firth was young enough to be her daughter. And then, of course, there was her older sister, Elizabeth, who sometimes stayed with the family. As you know, she was very supportive to Mr Brontë and the children after Maria’s death.’
‘Yes, I knew her very well,’ I said, recalling in my mind a picture of the dour Elizabeth Branwell when I first met her. ‘I wish now that I had taken the opportunity to talk with her more about her upbringing in Cornwall. All I can recall is how strongly she felt that she had taken a step down the social ladder in abandoning her contacts in Penzance for the primitive society of Haworth.’
‘I think that is not surprising. Mrs Fennell used to tell people here with pride what a prosperous tea merchant Thomas Branwell had been.’
‘And was such pride justified?’
‘Pride is never justified, Miss Nussey, but in this case it was not without foundation. I have studied what I can about the Branwells. Mr Branwell was a prosperous merchant who imported luxury goods and stored them in cellars that he owned at the quayside before selling them on, some wholesale and some in his own shop in a place aptly named Market Square. Trade was good because Penzance is a regular port of call for ships going to and from London, Bristol and Plymouth. However, this was not the only source of his wealth. He also owned property in and around the town, including a mansion called Tremenheere House and a hostelry called the Golden Lion Inn. To supply the latter he also ran his own brewery. What is more, he had made a good marriage by selecting as his wife Miss Anne Carne, the daughter of a silversmith. Her family was sufficiently wealthy to be partners in a bank called Oxnam, Batten & Co. that was opened in Chapel Street. Both the Branwell family and the Carne family worshipped in St Mary’s Chapel, which was their local parish church, but they also belonged to the very strong Wesleyan Methodist community in Penzance. I believe Mr and Mrs Branwell took their young children to hear the great John Wesley himself on more than one occasion.’
‘You know far more than I would have expected about them,’ I said.
‘Methodists speak a lot about each other and our clergy travel the country. It is not difficult to discover information if you seek it. Since the publication of Miss Brontë’s Jane Eyre, I have taken an interest in the family because of their connection with the school, limited though it was.’
‘I am sorry to have interrupted you. Please continue.’
‘I have almost told you all that I know. The Branwells set up home in Chapel Street and Mrs Branwell gave birth to eleven children, though three of those did not survive infancy. Thomas Branwell died in 1808 and his wife in 1809. Maria’s uncle, Mr Richard Branwell, took over her father’s house and business and became her guardian. Unfortunately further tragedy then struck in the winter of 1811. His son was drowned at sea, and that broke the father’s heart. He never recovered from his loss and died in 1812. I can understand why Maria Branwell was keen to find herself a husband when she joined her aunt here at Woodhouse Grove.’
‘You have been most helpful, sir, but are you sure there is not something else you can tell me about the family in Cornwall at that time? Any story or tale that is told, even if you cannot vouch for its authenticity?’
Mr Lord looked at me, clearly weighing up whether he should say more or not. Then he answered, ‘Having met you, I judge you to be a woman of good sense and propriety and I am convinced that your interest in the Brontë family is both genuine and well-meaning. For that reason, Miss Nussey, I will confide to you what I have hidden from all others. A few years ago I received a manuscript from a Methodist preacher called William Clowes, who served in Cornwall for a time in the 1820s. Apparently he was preaching in a place called Redruth and his words so moved a man called John Reynolds that he chose to make a written confession of his sins. It proved a shocking tale, not just because it told of grave criminal acts he had committed but also because it alleged that the Branwell family were involved in smuggling and shipwrecking. Clowes told me that he would have questioned Mr Reynolds about what he had written but unfortunately the man disappeared shortly after handing over his account. Two days later his body was discovered. His throat had been cut. Clowes surmised that one of his former companions had judged him to be a danger and that he silenced the poor unfortunate man.’
‘May I see this manuscript?’
‘You can have it. I have long struggled with what to do with it. Parts of it read as if it is a true account but I believe it cannot be so because it alleges that the Branwells were punished for their sinfulness by having a man called Heathcliff Earnshaw foist on them a child. I cannot for the life of me work out how something written in 1825 can contain a character that was invented by Emily Brontë twenty years later!’
‘Tell me about the child,’ I urged.
‘Read it and you will see. If, like me, you judge what it contains false, burn it. That is probably what William Clowes or I should have done long ago.’
I could not disguise my surprise at this sudden turn of events, but I was quick to express my gratitude at the confidence he showed in my judgement. I took the proffered manuscript and shortly afterwards took my leave. If outwardly I had kept my composure, inwardly my mind was in turmoil. I had gleaned much background information from my visit but clearly in my hands I held a document that promised far more. Once I was safely back home, I read the papers written by the murdered Cornishman. Afterwards I falsely conveyed to Mr Lord that I had destroyed the manuscript, thinking he might otherwise request its return. He seemed greatly relieved because I think he had regretted his impulsive act in handing it over to me. However, I did not destroy it. Indeed I have the manuscript on my desk now as I write this. In its pages I found the unholy link between the real Heathcliff and the Brontë family.