Free Romancing Miss Bronte by Juliet Gael Page B

the household accounts.
    “So the young master’s goin’ to be married soon to ’is lady, I ’ear.”
    “Is it true, miss?” Martha asked in wide-eyed wonder. “Will ’e be livin’ the life of a gentleman in a big house?”
    “You hear wrong, both of you,” Charlotte replied sourly.
    “But my father says that now that Mr. Robinson is dead there’s nothin’ to stop—”
    “Martha, your father only repeats what Branwell tells him, and he’s got his head in the clouds right now.”
    For days Branwell’s mood swung between elation and despair, until finally the long-anticipated message arrived. It had been a busy day at the parsonage, with tradesmen stopping by and the parish clerk taking tea in the kitchen. Martha was slow to get the door when the bell rang, so Charlotte answered it herself. It was young Johnny who ran messages for the owner of the Black Bull.
    “There’s a gentleman down waitin’ for Mr. Branwell,” he said, out of breath and bright with excitement.
    “Did he give you a card?” Charlotte asked.
    “No, miss, but he says he’s come with a message from a lady, and that Branwell would know what it’s about.”
    They were startled by a shout, and Charlotte looked around to see Branwell hovering on the stairs at the back of the hall.
    “It’s Lydia!” he cried gleefully. He came bounding down the stairs in his stockings and grabbed his coat from the hook.
    “Oh, my shoes!” he shouted. “My shoes! Where are my shoes! Oh, what the deuce, shoes be damned! Come on, Johnny, my boy, take me to the man,” he said. He dashed past the boy, raced across the small garden, and vaulted over the low stone wall into the cemetery.
    “Wait, Branwell!” the boy cried as he clambered over the wall after him.
    “Hurry up then,” Branwell shouted back as he sprinted through the cemetery. When he reached the lane beside the church, he hopped onto one of the flat box graves, spread his arms to the heavens, and sent up a resounding “Hallelujah!” Then he leapt off and ran shoeless down the stone stairs toward the Black Bull Inn.
    Charlotte found her father hunched over his desk with his head in his hands.
    “I suppose you heard,” she said.
    He nodded his head.
    Charlotte began to tidy up his desk. “I don’t know whether to give any credence to the story or not,” she said. “Branwell seems to think she’ll marry him and then he won’t have a worry in the world.” She arranged his pipe on the pipe rack. He had dropped a scattering of tobacco on his desk, and she carefully scooped it back into the tin.
    “God help me,” Patrick muttered, “my heart has hardened toward that woman. She’s ruined him.” He lifted his clouded eyes to Charlotte. “You cannot know, daughter, what it’s like for a father to stand by and watch a beloved child sucked into the power of someone like that. He won’t listen to me. I have no control over him. We can only turn to God and beseech His aid. Come, Charlotte. Let’s pray. Kneel down with me and pray. Let us pray for him to be delivered from this harlot.”
    Everyone at the Black Bull knew something was wrong that afternoon. Branwell closed himself in the back room with the visitor, but after the visitor had gone, Branwell did not emerge. Hartley Merrall was upstairs meeting with the other mill owners about the wool comber’s strike, and when he came downstairs they asked him to look in on Branwell. Hartley found him on the floor curled up in a ball, bleating like a lamb.
    Hartley got him to his feet and said he’d take him home. A powerful storm had moved in, with sharp gusts of wind and rain, and he had difficulty getting Branwell up the lane. Arthur, who was standing at the schoolroom door, saw them coming and ran to help.
    “What happened?” Arthur asked as he slung Branwell’s limp arm over his shoulder.
    “Poor fellow’s had a shock.”
    “It’s not drink?”
    “Hasn’t had a drop.” He shot a glance at Arthur. “Might’ve been a