Free The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë by Syrie James Page B

loved ones, filled me with grief. Far more grievous, however,were the harrowing memories of the last school I had attended, when I was eight years old—the Clergy Daughters’ School at Cowan Bridge—a truly horrifying place, whose tenure had resulted in a tragedy of such enormous proportions, that it haunted my family to this day. My father, who I think never quite forgave himself for that catastrophe, insisted that this school would be different.
    “Roe Head is a wonderful establishment,” he assured me, as we sat by the hearth in his study with my aunt Elizabeth Branwell, who was busily knitting a sweater. “It’s a brand-new school on the outskirts of Mirfield, not twenty miles from Haworth. They take only ten pupils, who all live in a fine old house which has just been acquired for that purpose. I can only afford to send one of you girls at a time; as the eldest, you’ll be the first.”
    “But papa,” said I, stunned by this unexpected news, and fighting back the sudden threat of tears, “I enjoy a wide-ranging education at home. Why must I leave?”
    “You are nearly fifteen years old, Charlotte. I have kept you at home long enough,” papa insisted.
    “You must be equipped to earn your own living as a teacher or a governess, in case you do not marry,” added Aunt Branwell. A very small, antiquated lady, my mother’s sister had reluctantly but dutifully removed from Penzance to Haworth after my mother’s death to care for us children. As always, she wore a false front of light auburn curls over her forehead, held in place by a white cap large enough for half a dozen of the caps in fashion at the time. Beneath her voluminous, dark silk skirts peeked the pattens 12 which she wore when downstairs to protect her feet from the cold stone floors of the parsonage. A practical and disciplined woman, Aunt Branwell had for years managed our household with skill and precision, if not great affection, overseeingour lessons and household chores and teaching us to sew, while often wistfully recalling the warmer climate of her beloved Cornwall, and the social pleasures she had enjoyed there. My father enjoyed their frequent, lively intellectual discussions; my sisters and I respected and appreciated her; my brother loved her as the mother we longed for but did not have.
    “There are accomplishments a young lady must possess, Charlotte,” Aunt Branwell continued, “further studies in language, music, and deportment, for example—and other subjects which your father and I are not qualified to teach, which will be of importance to a future employer.”
    I burst into tears now, too miserable to speak.
    “Don’t look upon this as the end of the world, Charlotte,” said Aunt Branwell. “You’ve spent nearly all your life in this one house. This school will be good for you.”
    “You’ll see: you’ll learn new things,” said papa, leaning forward and squeezing my hand with affection. “You’ll make new friends. You might even grow to like it.”
    I saw no prospect of my father’s prediction coming true on that bitterly cold day two weeks later, the 17th of January, as I made the long and bumpy journey to Roe Head School. A hired gig being too dear, I was conveyed to my destination in the back of a slow-moving covered cart, of the kind used to deliver produce to the main centres on market days. When at last I arrived, stiff-legged, nauseous, and frozen, in the fading light of that wintry afternoon, I was prepared to dislike my new home on sight; to my surprise, I could not help but be impressed. The grand, three-storeyed house of grey stone had an attractive double-bowed frontage; it was situated atop a hill with wide, sloping lawns to the front, and surrounded on both sides by gardens which, I imagined, would be lovely in spring; and its high position offered commanding views of the woods, the river valley, and the distant village of Huddersfield.
    As I was admitted into the oak-panelled entrance-hall, however,