Walter Hodges’ account still left me with the mystery of what had subsequently happened to Heathcliff. Had he spent the rest of his life locked away in some home for the insane? Hodges simply did not know. Through all the passing years he had just assumed that was the case. But I thought Heathcliff might have recovered. As far as I knew, Emily had got the initial idea of writing Wuthering Heights from Charlotte and so I thought it might be possible that Charlotte had somehow come across Heathcliff and heard his version of his love for Cathy. If that were the case, it offered a possible explanation of why she featured both insanity and a fire in her own novel, Jane Eyre. Most of what Charlotte wrote had some autobiographical origin. Tradition has it that the idea for Bertha Rochester’s insanity in the novel came from Charlotte hearing of a poor woman locked in an attic in a house near Ripon, but was it stretching the realms of the credible to surmise that she might also have been given this idea by knowing what had happened to Heathcliff and turning the fire that had caused his temporary insanity into the means of destroying Rochester’s unwanted wife? Certainly her description of the cruel scars and injuries inflicted on Rochester in the fire might well have been drawn from seeing Heathcliff ’s injuries.
Fortunately Hodges had given me a means of pursuing my investigations further because he had told me the name of the asylum to which Heathcliff had been eventually taken. It was in York and not unknown to me, because my brother George had suffered a nervous breakdown and been placed in it for a time. I wrote to the institution requesting any information they might have on a Mr Heathcliff Earnshaw and on any visitors who had come to see him. It was just a few days later that I received a reply. It read as follows:
3 May 1854
Dear Miss Nussey,
I remember you well from the time when you used to visit your brother. I was intrigued to receive your letter requesting information about a patient here called Heathcliff Earnshaw, because you are not the first person to seek such information. Many years ago a young man came to see me on exactly the same issue. I had just been in this post a few weeks and so I could tell him nothing from any first-hand knowledge, but it was simple for me to look up the records kept by my predecessor and to talk to some of the nurses. I therefore compiled a brief report for my visitor and I am happy to pass on that same report to you. It was originally written in the autumn of 1839:
‘Mr Heathcliff Earnshaw was admitted here in 1802. The previous year he had been seriously burned while heroically trying to rescue his son and a nephew and niece from a fire that had raged through his farmhouse. Unfortunately, his efforts were to no avail and they all perished. A combination of seeing them all burn to death and sustaining horrific injuries temporarily deprived the poor man of his senses. His burns were very extensive and it was a miracle he survived them. His notes say that at first all he kept muttering over and over again was the name “Cathy”. I believe this was the name of the unfortunate niece who died in the fire. As his physical strength returned, he became increasingly more aggressive in manner until he had to be restrained. Fortunately after a few years this phase came to an end and he then became altogether calmer. He began to talk about what had happened, at first hesitantly and then with more courage, and from then on his mental recovery became daily clearer. He was released in 1812. There is no record of where he went when he left here.’
You also ask me in your letter about any visitors who came to see the patient. The records show that he only had one – a Miss Dean. She saw him every three months at first but then ceased visiting altogether when he entered his violent phase. I am not surprised. It would have been very distressing for her to see him. We had no address to inform her of his eventual recovery and I can find no record of anyone coming here to meet him when he was released. The first interest shown in him was therefore the visit of the young man to me. He told me his name was Branwell Patrick Brontë and that he believed he might be a relative of Mr Earnshaw. I have had no contact from him since.
I hope that you find this information helpful.
Yours faithfully
Dr Timothy Harris
The surprise in this letter was not so much the proof that Heathcliff had recovered, but that Branwell had been making enquiries about him rather than Charlotte or Emily. What had led to his interest? Had he met Heathcliff and if so where? If Heathcliff had returned to his birthplace then one possible answer was Liverpool because I knew Branwell had visited that city in the summer of 1839. He had gone there with some of his old boyhood friends, ostensibly to hear the evangelical preaching of a then famous minister called the Reverend McNeille at St Jude’s Church. I remember Charlotte telling me at the time it was all an excuse. The young men simply wanted a good time free from parental control. I suspect Mr Brontë also had his questions about the visit because not so very long afterwards Branwell had been made to take up a steady form of employment. In the spring of 1840 he had become a private tutor to the two sons of a large landowner called Mr Robert Postlethwaite, who lived at Broughton House in Westmorland. It was his failure in that post that had signalled the start of his serious decline.
I determined to find out more about what had happened during Branwell’s visit to Liverpool and, knowing his main confidante had always been Charlotte, the obvious source was his letters to her. That Charlotte still possessed these was not in doubt because I knew that she had never destroyed anything he had written. I decided that I had to gain unauthorized access to his letters whilst Charlotte was absent from Haworth. She had told me that she was going on a tour of some of her friends and would visit me at Brookroyd in the second week of May. I think she felt the need to win our support for her forthcoming marriage. I therefore went immediately to Haworth, confident I could gain unaccompanied access to her room.
Mr Brontë was surprised to see me but I pretended that an unexpected journey had led me to pass close to the parsonage and that I had decided to call just so I could congratulate him on his daughter’s forthcoming marriage. He told me Charlotte was in Manchester discussing wedding plans with Mrs Gaskell and other friends and then to my surprise commented, ‘It’s my hope that she and her betrothed both have the unhappiness they deserve.’
‘Surely, sir, you want your daughter to be happy?’ I replied.
‘She should have placed her father’s wishes above that of his curate. Her place is by my side, not his.’
‘If you will forgive me, sir, I think that does not sound very Christian.’
‘Does not the Bible say, Miss Nussey, it is our Christian duty to honour our parents?’
I was tempted to say that I thought the Bible also tells us that a man will join with a woman and for that reason both will leave their parents, but I feared he would take offence and that I would jeopardize my mission. Instead, I tried to woo his favour by saying what I truthfully believed. ‘I confess, sir,’ I said, ‘I am puzzled why Charlotte is marrying him. I cannot find in him any qualities that justify her sacrifice.’
‘The man is a talentless fool with no ambition,’ he muttered. ‘Charlotte tells me I should be content with the fact he is high principled and affectionate, but she herself has arranged this marriage to be as quiet as possible. She knows the world will judge her to have thrown herself away on this man.’
After further venting his spleen against his prospective son-in-law, Mr Brontë retreated into his study, leaving me to await my return transport. This gave me the time I required. I quickly entered Charlotte’s room. I had been her friend long enough to know where she kept Branwell’s letters. To my delight I found her methodical approach meant that they were in a box in chronological order. I rapidly scanned the few letters that dated back to 1839 and 1840 and I found two that gave me all the answers I wanted. These I quickly copied and then I returned them to the box so that Charlotte would not know what I had done. Shortly afterwards I took my leave. Here at last I can reveal what the two letters contained. The first dates from the spring of 1840 but relays what happened in Liverpool the year before. It is very long but it is so important that I give it in its entirety:
Broughton House
Broughton-in-Furness
11 March 1840
Dearest Charlotte,
How much longer must I endure this miserable little retired seashore town! Oh for angel wings that I might rise above the wild woody hills that surround me and escape to the cream-white clouds that cap the nearby peaks! Oh to free myself from mankind’s sordid nature so that I might talk with the seraphim! Here there is company fit for none of my intellect and intelligence. My landlord may be deemed by the world to be a respectable surgeon, but he is a drunkard six days out of seven. Even the inane prattle of his bustling, chattering, kind-hearted and long-suffering wife is preferable to talking with such a sot. She, poor woman, attempts to hide the evidence of his drinking, judging me to be a most calm, sedate, sober, abstemious, patient, mild-hearted and virtuous young man – and doubtless, therefore, a prospective husband for her eighteen-year-old daughter. For the latter’s benefit until now I have dressed in black and smiled like a martyr and pretended to dislike wine and spirits, but she has yet to surrender anything of value. If her mother could see into my real soul and know the lustful thoughts that dwell there, she would certainly lock up her daughter more securely than her husband’s drink!
I do not mind telling you, Charlotte, that I sometimes dream of going to the Royal Hotel and downing a few hot as hell whisky-toddies till my senses reel and the candles in the room dance before my eyes and then returning to my lodgings to shock them all! But what would you say to such folly? You keep telling me that I have every reason to be happy, though it is not so many weeks ago that you were saying that no one of any spirit could endure a tutor’s lot! Why should I be happy educating the high-spirited but moronic sons of a retired magistrate? Because my wealthy employer happens to have a right hearty and generous disposition? Because his wife is an amiable enough woman? Because I can flirt with Agnes Riley, one of the servants here, knowing she is stupid enough to believe that I love her? Why should I be grateful for such small mercies as these? Tutoring is not the life that you or I ever envisaged for one of my many talents.
I know this may all sound melodramatic but as each day passes my misery increases because I now know why I am doomed to failure. In fact I begin to think that I am not even worthy to fulfil my current role. I keep looking at my master’s two boys and thinking that, far from learning anything from me, they should eschew my sin-bound presence. I have often complained to you in the past about the way fate has denied me recognition, but what I have kept hidden from you in recent weeks is that I have discovered why that should be so. Now I want you to know. I cannot carry the burden alone any more. I have no doubt that the rest of the family would shun me if I told them what I am about to write to you, but you have always been my closest confidante and greatest supporter. When you hear what I have to say, you will realize that I do not even deserve this station in life because, Charlotte, I am a fornicator, a murderer and a bastard.
As you know, last summer I went with some friends to Liverpool. We listened to the stupid meanderings of a dim evangelical of the worst kind so that we could dutifully report back his words, and then took ourselves off to happier and less moral pursuits in the dock area of the city. I will not seek to shock you by giving a detailed account of the debaucheries in which we engaged. Suffice it to say that money will purchase anything you require in that godforsaken hole. We took cheap lodgings to recover from the worst of our excesses before returning home, and it was there that my slumbers were disturbed by the news that my company was sought by a man who dwelt in one of the taverns that we had visited. I thought in my naivety that he must want to seek address for damage that we had drunkenly incurred and, fearing lest he seek his compensation through contacting our father, I went reluctantly to see him. It is since meeting him that I have known why I am truly cursed and why I shall never achieve fame, only condemnation and ignominy.
The man turned out to be far older than I expected because he looked to be at least in his seventies. However, he was still a powerful-looking person and the hand that gripped mine was uncomfortably firm and strong. I could see from his features that as a young man he must have been quite handsome, but his appearance had been marred not just by age but by the most vicious scarring. This marked the entire right-hand side of his face and neck and, on looking closer, I noticed that his right hand was equally badly scarred. From this I surmised that his clothes might cover other injuries. Though his lodgings were in a very unsavoury place, there was something about his manner that spoke of better days and his deep voice was not without evidence of him having received an education at some stage. He certainly did not speak with the common language of the docks. What struck me most were his deep black eyes. These seemed to bore a hole into my very soul, so fierce was their unflinching gaze, and yet I could see in them no ounce of humanity.
Before I could begin protesting my willingness to pay for any damage we had inadvertently caused, he commanded I accompany him upstairs to his room so we could speak in private. A wiser man might have resisted such a suggestion but I found myself immediately obeying him. Like the snake is said to sometimes hypnotize its victim before striking, his manner countenanced no resistance. The room into which he led me was surprisingly clean but very scarcely furnished. This was clearly a man who took no interest in his creature comforts. He directed me to an antique chair by a rough-hewn table and then pulled up another opposite me. He again looked at me in such an intense way that I thought he wished to etch every feature of my countenance into his mind. ‘You are not what I expected,’ he said. ‘I had hoped that you would be a fine-looking man.’
I responded to this rude affront by saying that those who set store by appearance are often disappointed and that what matters is not the body but the mind that drives it. I assured him that I had a great future ahead of me and that it was only a matter of time before my story-writing skills brought me the acclaim of the literary world. I admit this sounds very pompous but it was my response to the man’s insolent manner. Unfortunately, it did nothing to earn his approval. On the contrary, he spat with contempt and muttered that, in producing a son like me, his blood must have turned to water. I told him I was no son of his and he had obviously lost his senses. I give you verbatim what next passed between us because it is indelibly written on my mind:
‘Aye, I lost my senses once to the extent that I was locked away and men did not know whether I was a beast or a human being. Although I was covered with clothing, I bore little semblance to a man. I grovelled on all fours, and I snatched and growled like some strange, wild animal. A quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid my head and face. If I chose to stand on my hind feet to stare at some poor visitor, I looked like a clothed hyena. Few could face my purple scarred features and red-balled eyes. On one occasion I sprang and attacked a man and I laid bare his cheek with my teeth. After that few were allowed to visit unless I was first pinioned to a chair.’
I unconsciously put my hand to my face as if I feared a repeat of this barbaric act, and he, seeing the gesture, laughed. ‘I’m not mad now, I can assure you,’ he said, ‘but I have things to say that some might count insane. Look not to leave. You must bear me out.’ His lips curled up in more of a sneer than a smile and he added, ‘Humour my madness, if you like to think of it that way.’
Inhibited by his brutal manner, I nodded my acquiescence and he continued. ‘Years ago I was the victim of a fire that destroyed my home and my family. Most men would have died from the burns I suffered, but I survived. However, I was left not only with these horrible scars but also with a mind that had temporarily lost its reason. Once I had physically recovered from my burns, I was moved to a ward for the insane and there I was put on display to the curious. They could take pleasure in witnessing both my facial deformity and my mental incapacity. What I said earlier about my condition is true and I did attack one of those who particularly mocked me. After that, I was more closely confined.’
He paused and shuddered at the memory of that bad time. Then he resumed his story. ‘Fortunately after the passage of many years my mind grew gradually calmer with each passing day and there eventually came a time when I no longer amused anyone with wild antics. As a consequence I was released, but please be not deceived, this was no charitable act. After ten years of incarceration, there was no one to greet me or assist me. My jailers let me go in the sure knowledge that I would either be arrested as a vagrant or die in the streets. However, neither happened. I defied the odds against me and I took up work again, but I was no happier here than in the days of my madness. You see, I now knew again who I was and who I had lost.’
‘Who are you, sir?’ I said, seeing the obvious agony in his mind.
‘My name is Heathcliff Earnshaw and the person I lost was Cathy, the only woman I have ever loved. She was taken from me by a cursed scoundrel called Mr Edgar Linton. He deceived her into marrying him whilst I was away making my fortune. You can imagine the pain of returning home a wealthy man only to find the woman you love beyond your reach! I begged my Cathy to run away with me, but she refused because she was by then pregnant with twins. She died giving birth to two daughters. Edgar Linton took one and I stole the other. He named his child Catherine after her mother and he brought her up in his image – proud and haughty and deceitful. In contrast I had Cathy’s other daughter brought up by friends in Cornwall to be a most loving and kind girl. She was called Maria. I did not bring her up myself because I did not wish her ever to look on me as her father. Instead I hoped to win her as my bride once she had reached the same age as her mother had been when I lost her.’
He paused and looked to see my reaction. I could hardly believe such an outrageous story but the manner in which he told it left me in no doubt that he was telling the truth, and, looking at the grim determination in his visage, I feared what insanity I might hear next. I tried to smile and so indicate I was listening with sympathy to his tale, but my face gave more of a rictus grin. Nevertheless, this seemed sufficient for him to continue:
‘The year before I was to summon my new bride, I realized that I must first remove all evidence of my previous relationships. By then Edgar Linton was a dying man so all that was required was the elimination of the daughter he had corrupted and my two pathetic sons. One of these was born legally and named Linton. I had married his mother, who was Edgar’s sister, simply out of revenge and not love, and this hapless creature was the sole outcome of that undesirable union. He was a poor imitation of a young man and already half in his grave through a weak constitution. My other son was a half-wit that the world mistakenly called my nephew, a lad called Hareton. I had seduced his mother with ease because of her unhappy life with my half-brother, a man I detested. I gathered Hareton and Linton and Catherine into my home with their destruction in mind. Only my desire to first hear that Edgar Linton had died in an agony of despair at his daughter’s loss made me postpone their immediate murder. That was a mistake because Hareton escaped and brought assistance in the form of a stable boy to rescue the other two. In the struggle that ensued I set my farmhouse alight with the intention of destroying all my enemies. Unfortunately, the stupid interfering stable boy locked me into the barn and so I found myself also plunged into the flaming inferno. Hence my injuries and hence my resulting madness.’
I thought that madness must have affected him before the fire if there was even a scrap of truth in his appalling story, but I feared to make any comment and let him continue with his narrative.
‘Once I recalled who I was, I became obsessed with discovering how long I had been in the asylum and what had happened to the others. It did not take me long to discover that the fire had taken place many years before and that Catherine, Linton and Hareton had died in the blaze. When I was released, I tried to put all the past behind me but after the passage of a couple of years I came to a gradual determination to discover what had happened to my proposed bride. To my surprise I discovered Maria had left Cornwall and come to Yorkshire, not to join me as I had originally planned but to assist some relatives of those who had brought her up. These people lived in a new school created at …’
Before he could finish the sentence my mind had made the jump to what he would say. Surely the bride he had hoped to marry could not be my mother! I think he saw the look of startled recognition on my face. ‘Aye, lad,’ he said. ‘The name she had been given was Maria Branwell. The people she thought were her relatives were a schoolmaster and his wife named Fennell. He had taken up a post at Woodhouse Grove. A spineless Irish minister named Patrick Brontë – the man you call Father – had married my Maria in the December of 1812. When I heard, I knew that history had repeated itself. Once again my intended bride had been snatched from me and given to an unworthy man. I knew Cathy would turn in her grave if I did not rescue her child from the sour-faced cleric. Though I was much older than her husband and, as you can see, very badly scarred, I was still twice the man that he was. I did not doubt that I could win Maria’s love.’
He said this with such conviction that, although my mind reeled, I doubted not that he thought he spoke the truth, even if he did not.
‘When I first saw your mother,’ he continued, ‘I confess that I was very taken aback because she was so short in stature and she looked nothing like Cathy, but I soon recognized that she had the same natural vivacity and gaiety. In a strange way her lack of beauty made her a better choice because it made us well matched. After all, I had none of my former good looks. Using wealth that I had retained from my earlier existence as a revenue man, I set up home near to where she and her husband lived, but under an assumed name, so none might recall my past. I was confident that my disfigurement would prevent anyone recognizing me, and I evoked sympathy by making out that my scarred visage stemmed from injuries sustained in fighting for my country. It did not take me long to appreciate that Maria had been brought up to be more religious than is to my taste, and so I determined that I should not permit my feelings to rush me into any precipitate action that might cause her to reject my advances. Although the world saw them as being a successful and happy couple because she had borne her husband two daughters, I saw otherwise. It was obvious to me that Maria was very unhappy in her marriage.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I interrupted. ‘My parents were very happily married.’
‘Patrick Brontë may have given you that impression,’ he replied, ‘but I can assure you that the man only married her because he wrongly assumed she came from a family of some wealth that would ensure his promotion within the Church. When he first married her, he satisfied his lusts on her but there was no love. She knew that and it caused her much pain. She, who was used to the concert hall and assembly rooms of Penzance, found herself trapped in a grimy, small town that consisted of little more than one grey terraced street, devoid of culture, society and beauty. Worse still, she found she had married a man who professed Christianity yet was domineering and self-centred. I found as an older man it was easy to win her confidence and to let her pour out her sorrows to a sympathetic ear. It was but a short step to win first her affection and then, as the months passed, her love. Ours was a true passion.’
‘True passion!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ll not believe a word of it. My mother would never have succumbed to your embraces or the sick seducement of such a warped mind as yours!’
‘Believe that, if you prefer,’ he said. ‘But I assure you that when she finally permitted me to gather her in my arms she experienced the kind of lovemaking that her hypocritical husband had never offered. And surely you would prefer to be a love-child than the product of a loveless match?’
‘You are not my father!’ I screamed.
‘I am and, in your heart, I believe you already know it. What have you got in common with that poor specimen you have called your father?’
‘More than I have in common with you!’
He laughed. ‘You are indeed not the son that I had imagined but that’s the influence of that damned Brontë. He has brought you up to be the effeminate creature that you are. Had I been the master of your fate, I would have turned you into a son worthy of me and of your mother.’
‘So where have you been all these years?’
‘Until recently I was in a prison cell, entirely due to the slanderous lies of your so-called father. When I heard your name last night, I could scarce believe it. Branwell Brontë. I knew there could not be another. Fortune has brought us together and this time it will not separate us.’
Though most of my mind told me I should leave the place and never see this monster again, my curiosity bade me to stay. I found myself saying, almost despite myself, ‘So what happened all those years ago?’
‘Maria found she was pregnant and she believed the child could only be ours because at that time her husband had decided to abstain from further carnal knowledge of her. He did not wish to see his family grow so large that it might prevent him advancing his career. I urged her to flee away with me but she refused to be parted from her two daughters. Without my knowledge she sought to hide her infidelity by deliberately seducing her own husband in the hope he would think the third child was his. I was angry when I heard what she had done and began to think of ways in which I could ensure Brontë’s demise. With him dead she would be free to marry me and retain all her children.’
‘There is no way that my mother would have contemplated linking herself to a murderer!’ I shouted.
‘I recognized that and so I knew I would have to act carefully to disguise my actions. Our daughter was born and named Charlotte and our affair continued. Once again Maria became pregnant – this time with a son, with you. Once again she seduced her husband into making love, but this time she left matters too late and Brontë was suspicious that he could not be the father. I know not what he did to your mother but she was forced to admit her love for me. He took swift action. At the time there had been much mob violence from those opposed to new machinery in the mills and he had me arrested as a leader of this. Despite my protestations of innocence, I was condemned and sent to prison. The only way that I could have proved myself free of the charge would have been to uncover my true identity and I dared not do that.’
‘Why not, sir?’
‘Because there was enough in my past to warrant a hanging. Once I was imprisoned, your poor mother was forced to bear the brunt of her husband’s anger. I am sure this included raping her on more than one occasion for I cannot believe she would have willingly given herself to him yet I heard they had two more children before she died. In my worst moments I fear he was responsible also for her untimely death.’
‘No more! No more!’ I sobbed. ‘I cannot bear to hear any more evil from your mouth! You have destroyed all my certainties and all my peace of mind!’
‘Your suffering is nothing compared to mine!’ he snarled. ‘What do you know of passion? I watched your pathetic behaviour with the sluts whose services you paid for last night. Maybe I should destroy you as I have destroyed my other children.’
I ignored this threat and yelled back at him, ‘What do you want? Why tell me all this if I matter nothing to you!’
‘Because I want you to bring your sister Charlotte to me. She is Maria’s daughter and Cathy’s granddaughter. With her I can begin again!’
‘Begin again?’ I muttered questioningly. He did not reply but, looking at his lustful face, the enormity of what he meant suddenly hit me and I was stunned to my innermost depths. The man was totally insane! Did he now want to marry his own daughter? What perverse logic dominated this man’s sick mind? I thrust him from me, shouting, ‘Keep away from my sister!’, and I grabbed a knife from the table that lay between us.
‘Hareton did what I told him. Linton did what I told him. And you will do what I tell you to do or, like them, you will feel the lash of my fist,’ he threatened.
He dived towards me and I in my panic and terror lashed out at him. The knife was in my hand and, without my intending it, it sliced across his throat. With a sudden look of shock, he held his hand to the gaping wound and watched the red blood begin trickling through his scarred fingers. He made as if to seize me but his much-vaunted strength failed him and he sank to his knees. A strange gurgling sound escaped from his mouth as he tried to speak and then he crashed to the floor. A red pool began to form around his body as his life-blood flowed out. I watched the man who claimed to be my father slowly but surely die and in that moment, despite all the horror, I believed all that he had told me.
You know, Charlotte, what the man the world calls our father is like. He is cold and unfeeling beneath the veneer of his respectability. How could our mother have received the affection from him that was her due? I now saw his insistence on my always sleeping in his room for what it was – his way of keeping a bastard from contaminating his true children. Maybe Heathcliff Earnshaw was wrong in thinking that you were his child because our mother clearly was still fulfilling all the duties of a wife, but I am sure he was right in saying that I am his son.
I fled the scene of murder and vowed never to disclose these events to anyone, especially you. I dosed myself with opium in the hope that it would remove all memory of what had happened, but it gave only temporary relief. When I returned to Haworth I tried to behave as if nothing had happened whilst constantly fearing a knock on the door would single the arrival of those who had come to arrest me for my crime. Even worse, I began imagining that maybe the lunatic man I had killed was right in thinking that our mother’s death was a product of her husband’s revenge for her infidelity. You know as well as I how quickly after her death your father (for I no longer can call him mine) sought to remarry, though he could find none to take him. In my worst imaginings I feared even that Aunt Elizabeth might have had a hand in what happened. Who knows what he may have promised to her in order to engage her assistance in her stepsister’s demise? Was her love for us just penitence at her earlier crime?
Not surprisingly, I found I could not bear to be within the same walls as the man I no longer saw as my father and that is why I took the post here, though it ran counter to all my earlier expressed ambitions. I simply had to escape. What a joke! Escape! The past weeks have taught me there is no escape. Wherever I choose to go, I am still a bastard, still the child of a maniac and a sadly duped woman. Wherever I go, I am still the murderer of my own father. What hope is there for me? Before I could scream against the injustice of a fate that denied my talents, but now my miserable existence can only be seen as the rightful lifestyle for a man who must be cursed and condemned for all eternity. All the majestic beauty of the hills and lakes that surround here cannot bring peace to a tortured soul like mine!
I know that I will have brought you much pain by what I have revealed, especially the behaviour of our mother and therefore the uncertainty of your own birth. I know also that I will have made you think less of the man you so affectionately call brother by revealing my own illegitimacy and my unworthy and criminal action. All I can ask is that you forgive me and pray for me. I know not what to do to escape my current situation! I look on all my cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing, as now no more than just stark, chill, livid corpses that can never revive.
Your forever damned but still loving half-brother,
Branwell