The Last Bronte

The Last Bronte

I felt such anticipation as the bus drove to Haworth, my dream destination for decades, ever since I read Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. How could sisters, sheltered and disconnected from much of society, create books of such passion and darkness?

As we pulled up to the Bronte Parsonage Museum, I glimpsed the Brontes’ beloved moors. I didn’t know my companions on this excursion. It was a side trip on my tour. I couldn’t miss this chance to see where the Brontes created their masterpieces and lived out their lives.

Adjacent to the parsonage is the graveyard and St. Michael and All Angels' Church, where Patrick Bronte had been curate. Imagine living next to a graveyard during a time when illness and death came so easily. Patrick and his wife, Maria, moved to the parsonage in 1820, a year before Maria died of cancer. Her sister, Elizabeth, then moved in to help Patrick raise a half dozen children, five girls and one boy.

Molly, the overseer of the parsonage, greeted us at the door. The building is fairly large, but I imagine it was quite noisy and cramped in its day, with eight people living there. We saw the kitchen, where the Brontes ate their meals and did their chores, including the determined Emily. She insisted on doing her work on the day she died of tuberculosis. But she wasn't the first Bronte progeny to die--far from it.

In the parlor, we saw the famous portrait of Charlotte by George Richmond. I had read that Charlotte, Emily, and Anne used to march around the parlor table, reciting their stories and poems to each other.

Our tour took us upstairs, where the girls shared bedrooms, and Branwell, their brother, had his own room. Molly told us that Branwell's father had high hopes for his only son, but, in 1848, the family was devastated when Branwell died of tuberculosis. Alcoholism hastened his untimely death. As we passed Branwell's room, I thought I saw a figure, but maybe it was just wind blowing a curtain.

The Bronte's oldest daughters, Maria and Elizabeth, died very young—years before Branwell. All the children, except Branwell and baby Anne, had been sent to a boarding school. Conditions at the facility were horrific; its poor living conditions would be the inspiration for Lowood in Charlotte's Jane Eyre. All the girls came down with tuberculosis. Charlotte and Emily survived; their older sisters did not.

Our tour group, comprised of uncharacteristically focused and quiet Americans, was transfixed by the intricate needlework displayed in all the rooms. The Brontes spent many a night bent over the needlework as the wind howled over the moors.

“And whose easel and painting is downstairs?” I asked, thinking that Molly or a coworker was an artist in her free time.

Molly looked at me curiously. “There’s no easel, but as a matter of fact, Branwell was a painter.”

I didn’t respond, but I was almost certain that I saw an easel and smelled paint when we entered the house.

We examined the remaining rooms, and then I gazed out a window. Suddenly, I observed a figure on the moors. The person had long, dark hair like Emily, or maybe the figure resembled her beloved Catherine Earnshaw from Wuthering Heights. Her hair was blowing in the wind.

I turned to ask one of my tour mates if they also saw the figure on the moors, but the group had gone downstairs. They were going to visit the Church and the Bronte Family Vault, where all the family members but Anne are interred.

I started down the hallway and heard soft laughter. I peered into a bedroom and saw two figures. One was definitely Charlotte. She was happily holding a tiny sweater and showing it to a man. Was it Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre? He did have children with Jane. Or, could it be Charlotte's husband, Arthur Bell Nicholls? The two figures didn't notice me. I wasn't afraid, oddly enough. I had come to their home, so I shouldn't be surprised to see them.

After going downstairs, I returned to the parlor. I could clearly see three teenage girls. I heard them giggling as they walked around the table. It appeared that Emily was reciting a poem in a strong, deepened voice.

In the next room, I found the painting and easel I thought I saw earlier. It was a painting I had seen in books--a study of Charlotte, Emily, and Anne, painted by Branwell. I remembered reading that Branwell included his own face in the portrait but was unhappy with the self-portrait and finally painted over it. I examined the painting closely. I could smell fresh paint.

Then I heard the bus ignition start.

"No, wait." I hurried out of the house and ran after the vehicle. The occupants didn’t see or hear me. The bus continued on its journey. I searched for Molly but didn’t find her. It was alone at the Parsonage.

I tried to call the tour company on my cell phone, but I got no signal. I looked for a phone in the Parsonage but found none. I walked to the Church to find assistance, but I found no clergy. No Molly either.

I was about to walk out of the Church when I heard soft crying. I saw a female figure in a pew at the front of the Church. Possibly it was Anne. Her young eyes cried into the hanky she held. Was she upset over being the only Bronte not buried here? I remembered reading that she took a final trip to Scarborough to regain her health from the effects of tuberculosis. Charlotte accompanied her. It soon became clear that the 29-year-old wouldn't survive. After she died, Charlotte decided to "lay the flower where it had fallen." Anne was buried at St. Mary's Churchyard, near the bay in Scarborough. Charlotte thought her sister would love being near the sea, but maybe she was lonely. Was Anne the crying figure in the Church?

Anne, like Charlotte and Emily, originally used a male pen name on her books. Though a gifted novelist, she didn’t achieve the immortality of her sisters.

Branwell, Emily, and Anne died in an eight-month period. Only Charlotte and her father remained at the Parsonage; Aunt Elizabeth had passed away some years before.

Arthur soon confessed his love to Charlotte. Patrick Bronte wasn't enthusiastic about the marriage of his assistant to Charlotte and couldn’t bring himself to give his daughter away. Even so, Charlotte found happiness in both her fame as a novelist and her marriage. She and Arthur were delighted when she soon became pregnant at age 38, but it became clear that her extreme illness in pregnancy would be fatal. Charlotte and her unborn baby died in 1855.

I stood outside the Church. I wasn't sure what to do next. It would soon be dark. I couldn’t find anyone—not a living person anyway. Should I spend the night at the haunted Parsonage? I felt a kinship, not fear, with these spirits.

As I walked by the graveyard, I looked over and saw the figure of an old man sitting at a table. A younger man stood beside him, pouring tea. Patrick Bronte and Arthur? Arthur was devoted to Patrick and took care of him following Charlotte's death. I'm sure that Patrick, though a strong, imposing man, didn't expect to outlive his wife and six children. He died in 1861 at age 84--the last Bronte.

"Wake up."

“Rise and shine!” My roommate, Joan, was shaking my arm. "Laura, we're leaving on our tour soon."

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Reality rushed back. "It was all just a dream," I muttered, as I looked around our hotel room.

"Remember, we're going to Haworth today. We'll spend some quality time with the Brontes," Joan said cheerily.

The images still flickered in my mind. Charlotte giggling over clothing for her hoped-for child and Emily’s hair in the wind. I smiled back at Joan. "Yes, I know them well.”

I dressed quickly. Joan and I walked outside to the streets of London. I didn’t know if I should tell her about my dream.

Joan looked at her map.

“Let’s see. I believe the bus will pick us up just a few blocks down. Oh yes, Ember Street. Molly at the parsonage said the bus would be there at 10.”

I stopped in my tracks and felt my heart race. “What name did you say?”

THE END