Devlin Charlotte

A Novel
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-84351-905-8
Verlag: The Lilliput Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 340 Seiten

Charlotte Brontë dazzled the world with some of literature's most vital, richly-drawn characters. She spent her brief but extraordinary life in search of love - and eventually found it with Arthur Bell Nicholls, her father's curate, a reserved yet passionate Irishman. The pair honeymooned in Ireland, though their joy was quenched nine months later when Charlotte died in March 1855. The aura of mystery surrounding the enigmatic author was only to intensify after her death. Charlotte is the story of two marriages and three lives irrevocably intertwined, told by the woman who went on to wed Brontë's widower. Theirs was a love triangle of devotion and heartache, friendship and deception, passion and obsession. Martina Devlin's enthralling novel re-envisions Charlotte's pivotal time in Ireland, weaving back and forth through the novelist's life and afterlife. It reflects upon the myths built up by those who knew her, those who thought they did, and those who longed to.      'I was utterly enthralled by this fictional rendering of Charlotte Brontë's life-and its aftermath-as viewed through the eyes of her husband's second wife. This is a powerful and compelling novel that expertly imagines the lives and times of those closest to Brontë, and captivates the reader with its cleverness and eloquence.' Mary Costello      'In   Charlotte  , the raw gold of Charlotte Brontë's marriage to Arthur Nicholls has been wrought in a wonderful artefact; this is a beautiful novel full of mystery, intrigue and story.' Carlo Gébler     

Martina Devlin has written novels, plays and short stories. She has won the Royal Society of Literature's V.S. Pritchett Prize, a Hennessy Literary Award, and been shortlisted three times for the Irish Book Awards. She writes a weekly current affairs column for the Irish Independent for which she has won a number of prizes, including National Newspapers of Ireland commentator of the year. She holds a PhD in literary practice from Trinity College Dublin.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Devlin, Martina

Leseproben

CHAPTER 1

BANAGHER, IRELAND

‘Jane Eyre is getting married to Arthur. And they’re coming to Ireland on their honeymoon.’ Mama, known the length and breadth of King’s County for her composure, was wide-eyed with astonishment at the news in her letter.

‘Our Arthur?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Marrying Charlotte Brontë?’

‘That’s what I said. The Jane Eyre authoress.’

‘The most famous writer in the world?’

‘Don’t exaggerate, Mary.’

‘She’s caused a sensation!’

‘If you say so, my pet.’

We were drinking tea at the breakfast table – me considering whether to choose pale blue or pale pink for my new summer gown, Mama reading her letters. I had noticed one from Arthur among her stack, but he was twelve years my senior and his communications rarely interested me. They droned on about Sunday school prizes and godless parishioners, or walks on the moors with the parsonage hounds. Mr Brontë this and Mr Brontë that. I’d have paid attention to any mention of Charlotte Brontë, but it was always the old parson he talked about. If not for that memorable surname, we’d never have joined the dots when the novels were published. Arthur had said nothing about the parson’s daughters being writers.

Mama threw down the letter and tested her fingertips against her coronet of plaits. ‘How could he!’

‘You’re always saying it’s high time he took a wife, Mama.’

‘But not just any wife. You, Mary! He’s meant to marry you!’

‘He’s never shown the least interest in me.’

‘That’s because you don’t encourage him.’

‘Arthur’s like a brother to me. Kinder than a brother – he never dropped earwigs down the back of my neck like Richard did. Besides, I don’t believe I’d care to be a minister’s wife.’

‘What you get and what you want are two different things.’

‘You got what you wanted with Papa.’

‘Your poor papa. He was the kindest of men. Goodness knows what he thinks of Arthur’s marriage plans, looking down on us all.’

‘I expect he’d say it’s a suitable match.’

‘I hope she doesn’t find us too provincial here. I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep her entertained.’

‘At least we’ve read her novels.’

‘I cast an eye over them, I admit. But I prefer poetry.’

‘You devoured them, Mama. Especially Jane Eyre. You can’t have forgotten Denis Coughlan driving us into Parsonstown to buy each instalment?’ I quoted my favourite passage from memory. ‘Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! – I have as much soul as you, – and full as much heart! It’s – I don’t know – it puts me in raptures! I long to press herself between the book’s pages like a dried flower!’

‘Don’t gush, Mary.’

‘When I read it, I fancied Jane was confiding in me. We were sitting together, and she was trusting me with her story.’

‘But who are you meant to marry now? Arthur’s perfect for you. How can he be so inconsiderate?’

‘Mama, I’ve never wanted to marry Arthur. I can’t imagine being his wife. It’s too silly for words.’

‘You don’t know what’s best for you.’ A gusty sigh. ‘Too late now.’

‘What else does the letter say?’

She picked it up from the table and read aloud. ‘In the course of our trip, I hope to show Banagher to my new wife. May we spend a week with all of you in Cuba Court, Aunt Harriette? I can’t wait to introduce Charlotte to my family.’

‘It’s nice he’s bringing her here to pay her respects to you.’

A sniff. ‘It means we aren’t invited. He won’t have any of his kin standing beside him on his wedding day.’

‘Hasn’t he asked Alan?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘You’d think he’d want his brother as best man.’

‘One of those parson friends of his is doing the honours. He says it’s because everything’s happening quite soon, on the twenty-ninth of June. He’s in a tearing hurry.’

‘That’s not like Arthur. Usually, he takes a mortal age to make up his mind to anything.’

‘It must be that Jane Eyre person, afraid he’ll slip through her fingers.’

‘Charlotte Brontë, Mama. You mustn’t keep calling her Jane Eyre. She might take offence if you do it to her face. You’ll write back and tell Arthur to bring her, won’t you? Think of the excitement in the parish!’

‘Arthur’s wife will always be welcome here. This is his home.’

‘May I read the letter?’ She handed it over.

I wish you could be with us, Aunt Harriette, but time is in short supply, and Haworth is remote – it takes a determined explorer to reach the Yorkshire moors. If we marry quickly, Mr Brontë can spare me from my duties for a month’s holiday. I intend us to do some touring. My bride-to-be, while otherwise perfect, is woefully ignorant about Ireland ’s charms, and we can’t have that.

‘Arthur will be in his element poring over train timetables and drawing up their itinerary, Mama. I wonder where else he’ll bring her? Dublin, I suppose, to stay with Alan.’

‘I remember him telling me her father’s an Irishman, from County Down. I expect they’ll go north.’

‘Of course. Arthur likes to do the right thing.’

‘The right thing would be marrying you. Oh, no use crying over spilled milk. Is there time to sew a new counterpane for the Blue Room, do you think?’

Counterpanes! At a time like this! ‘I wonder how it can have happened, Mama?’

‘What, dear?’

‘Arthur bagging Charlotte Brontë.’

‘He’s good-looking and good-natured. Why shouldn’t he win her?’

‘But poor, like most curates.’

‘After donkey’s years as her father’s curate, I suppose proximity led to affection.’

I handed back the letter. ‘But he resigned his position last year. The last time we saw Arthur, he was talking about becoming a missionary. Maybe he intends to make Charlotte a missionary’s wife. That would certainly inspire another novel!’

‘A missionary’s wife has no time to write novels. In any case, I suspect he’s given up that notion. Can’t say I’m sorry. The missions tend to break a man’s health.’

I was envious of the idea of a wedding tour – I’d never gone further than Dublin. Mama had an aversion to travel because Papa, who was asthmatic, had died waiting to take ship to the south of France. A daring idea caught hold of me, and I became dense with longing. ‘May I meet them off the boat?’

‘His brother in Dublin will do that, Mary. You’ll have an opportunity to become acquainted with your new cousin in Banagher.’

‘Please, Mama. If we’re not going to the wedding. It’s so humdrum here!’

Mama gave me an indulgent smile. ‘Very well, my pet. I’ll write to Alan’s wife and ask if you can stay a few nights. She’s in a delicate condition, but one more guest won’t make much difference. In fact, Julia might be glad of your help.’ She stood up, all bustle and business as usual. ‘Who will you travel up with? Richard’s the obvious candidate, but I don’t want him getting up to mischief in the city. One of your Adamson cousins might chaperone you. But it means them coming to Banagher to fetch you. Perhaps if I have a stern talk with Richard …’

Having won the battle, I knew better than to protest about escorts, and left Mama to her machinations. Meanwhile, I hugged tight my elation.

*

I wanted to meet Charlotte Brontë off the steam packet at Kingstown. It seemed fitting to witness her stepping onto Irish soil there, the restless sea at her back. Ropes thrown by sailors to men waiting on the dock. A gangplank laid from ship to quay. Sails rolled and lashed. The crew with tattoos on their arms and necks, calling to one another in a variety of languages. But the men in my family pointed out that boat trains were always crammed and the quays slippery, so instead we waited for the newlyweds six or so miles away, in Westland Row railway station.

And there we made three spokes in a welcoming wheel: Arthur’s older brother, Alan Nicholls, my brother Richard and me, keen to greet Charlotte – not because she was a fêted writer, but as Arthur’s wife. We Bells and our Nicholls cousins are family-minded. The two Nicholls boys were planted within our household, and my parents had raised all of us together in Cuba Court with no difference in treatment.

Arthur’s robust shape was easy to spot, but she was harder to spy. First, I saw an arm reaching out from the train: he took her hand and guided her onto the platform. Still, I couldn’t quite distinguish her, half-hidden by his frame. Usually, Mama was indignant about Arthur’s worn appearance when he came home on holiday. ‘A dogsbody, they make of him, in that English parish,’ she’d say. This year, he looked rejuvenated.

Alan rushed at them, but Richard held back and nudged me. ‘Look at the smile on Arthur’s face. Cupid’s arrow’s found its mark.’

‘What would you know about Cupid?’

‘More than you.’

‘There’s a difference between love and your, your, buccaneering.’

‘Miss Prim.’ He tweaked my hat ribbons, deliberately lop-siding my bonnet, and strolled over to join the others.

Fuming, I hovered on the sidelines, while Richard clapped Arthur on the back, raised his hat to Charlotte and kissed her hand. Arthur couldn’t help but look drab beside my dashing brother,...