Free The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë by Syrie James

indecision. “It is time,” I silently scolded myself, “to give up your guilty pleasure.” But I could not help myself.
    A quick glance into the study convinced me that Emily and Anne would be engaged at the piano for a good half-hour, at least. Hastily, I stole upstairs to my chamber, took my keys from my pocket, and unlocked the bottom drawer of my bureau. From its depths, I removed a small rosewood case which had once belonged to my mother. I unlocked the case and took out a bundle shrouded in silver paper; this I unwrapped, to reveal a small packet of letters tied with a scarlet ribbon. Five letters only: these were the sum total of my treasure. I sat down on the bed, untied the precious bundle, and eyed the first letter in the stack: the one that had come just a few weeks after I returned from Belgium.
    Oh! What delight I had felt upon its receipt, and on the arrival of its four successors. Each new letter had been as if an aliment divine: a godsend, sweet, pure, and life-sustaining. Even now, knowing every word of their contents so intimately that I could recite them in my sleep, a mere glimpse of each coverwith its direction, “Miss Charlotte Brontë,” in that clean, decided, and familiar hand—stamped on the reverse with the well-cut impress of three beloved initials—caused a thrill to run lively through all my veins and warmed me to my very core.
    How many letters had I sent to Brussels, I wondered, in the past eighteen months? Too many to count; yet, in all that time, I had received only these five precious replies. Some I had read at the very moment of receipt; others—like a perfectly ripe peach, too good to be tasted at once—I had saved for a later devouring, when they could be enjoyed away from prying eyes and questioning tongues. Each one I had opened with the greatest of care, gently sliding a knife blade beneath the seal, to leave the molten circle intact in all its crimson beauty.
    Now, I picked up the first envelope and slipped out the crisp, white pages just as cautiously, so as not to crease or despoil the edges; with rapidly beating heart, I unfolded them and gave myself over to my treat. The letters were, of course, written in French. I had, while in Belgium, developed a certain level of prowess in that language; since I left that country, I had committed myself to reading a half page of a French newspaper every day, to keep alive my skills. Now, I took my time, slowly savouring each and every word, one epistle at a time, until I had read all five. When I was through, I tied and wrapped them as before, replaced them in their box, and returned them to their hiding place.
    Diary, you may ask: what did these letters contain, that caused me to await them with such fervent anticipation, and peruse them over and over again with such eagerness? Were they Shakespearean in their might and brilliance? Were they akin to Byron, the outpourings of a tortured, poetic soul? Hardly. They were simply good-natured letters, written in a benignant mood, sharing news of people we both knew and imparting sage counsel. And yet to me, they seemed the elixir of a divined vintage; a draught which Hebe might provide, and the very gods approve. They nourished my soul; they gave me vital comfort. When that comfort was withdrawn—as the months ticked by, and one season followed another, without a word from him—I was tormented exceedingly, locked like the letters in my drawer in a state of stasis from which there was no escape.
    What had I done to deserve this silence? After that night in the garden—after all that he had said, and all that had happened—it seemed impossible that he had forgotten me; and yet it seemed that he wanted me to forget him.
    People who have undergone bereavement often gather together and stash away mementos of their dearly departed; it is not supportable to be stabbed to the heart each moment by sharp revival of regret. As such, I had stowed his letters out of sight, and had tried to stop