Read The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë for Free Online Page B

“Good-afternoon.”
    “Good-afternoon,” I replied. “Mr. Nicholls: may I present my brother Branwell and my sister, Miss Anne Brontë. Branwell, Anne: this is the Reverend Arthur Bell Nicholls, the new curate of Haworth.”
    Mr. Nicholls shook hands with Branwell and bowed formally to Anne. “I thought I detected a family resemblance. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
    “A pleasure to meet you, sir”—“And you, sir”—were Branwell’s and Anne’s replies. Emily, in typical fashion, said nothing.
    “It is good to see you both again,” said the livelier Mr. Grant, amidst more hand-shaking and bowing. I thought Mr. Grant a self-complacent and snobbish man, from his turned-up nose and elevated chin to his clerical black gaiters and square-toed shoes, but he did seem to be an active and devoted parish priest. “Are you home for the summer?”
    “Sadly, I must return in short order,” answered Branwell breezily, “but Anne is back for good. Had her fill of governessing, apparently.”
    “Well,” said Mr. Grant, “that is totally understandable. To be locked away on a remote country estate, miles from anywhere, with no access to high society—it would indeed be deadly dull.”
    “I thought so myself, at first,” remarked Branwell. “The first three months I was so bored, I thought I would tear my hair out; but the place grew on me.”
    Anne frowned and said suddenly, “If you will excuse me, I am most anxious to see papa.”
    “I will go with you,” said Emily.
    My sisters darted off. I was eager to join them, and was about to say good-bye, when Branwell said, “Would you gentlemen like to join us for tea? If I am not mistaken, Tabby and Martha will have a feast of some sort awaiting us.”
    Mr. Grant smiled heartily. “Thank you, we’d be delighted.”
    My heart sank. I had looked forward to an intimate family gathering, just the five of us, to celebrate Anne and Branwell’s homecoming; I believed that papa had, too. Every time we had shared our table with the local curates, I had found them to be a self-seeking, vain, and empty race—and I did not wish to dine with Mr. Nicholls, in particular. My brother, however, had always been a gregarious, sociable being—and now the die was cast.
    “I will see you gentlemen inside,” said I, forcing a smile. I then hastened down the lane towards the parsonage, after my sisters.
     
    As I entered the house through the yard door, the delectable aroma of roast beef and Yorkshire puddings assailed my nostrils. My sisters were both crouched down in the kitchen, happily receiving enthusiastic canine kisses from their respective animals. Our mastiff belonged to Emily; Flossy had been a gift from Anne’s pupils, the Robinsons; to her distress, they had so mistreated the lovely spaniel that she had been obliged to bring him home, where he stayed under Emily’s excellent care.
    Tabby (bent over the stove, boiling potatoes) and Martha (removing puddings from the oven) both squealed with delight at the sight of Anne, and they were soon in each other’s arms.
    “How we’ve missed ye, lass!” said Tabby, wiping happy tears from her eyes with a corner of her apron.
    “How good it is t’ see ye, Miss Anne!” cried Martha. Just seventeen years old, Martha Brown was a cheerful, slender womanwith soft, dark hair and a pleasant face. The second eldest daughter of Mary and John Brown of Sexton House, just a few doors away, Martha had come to live with us at the tender age of thirteen, taking over the heavier share of the housework. “Roast beef an’ puddings bein’ a favourite o’ your’n an’ good Maister Branwell’s,” Martha told Anne, “we’ve took care t’ mak’ a proper Sunday dinner for your homecoming, although it be only a Tuesday.”
    “Thank you both,” said Anne with a smile.
    “I hope you have made enough for two more,” said I, “because your ‘good Master Branwell’ has just invited Mr. Nicholls and Mr. Grant to dine with