All language subtitles for To.Walk.Invisible.2016.1080p.HDTV.5.3M.EN2-aac.en

"We wove a web in childhood,
A web of sunny air.

"We dug a spring in infancy
Of water pure and fair.

"We sowed in youth a mustard seed,

"We cut an almond rod;

"We're now grown up to riper age -
Are they withered in the sod?

"Are they blighted failed and faded,

"Are they moulded back to clay?

"For life is darkly shaded;
And its joys fleet fast away."

What the hell is going on?

Qui sont ces gens?!

They'll tear us limb from limb.

I've crossed the Arctic
and seen nothing like it.

Down on them! Instantly! Run!

Know you that I give into your
protection - but not for your own -

these mortals whom
you hold in your hands.

What's yours called? Wellesley.
This is Gravey.

Because he looks a bit grave.
Mine's called...

Waiting Boy. Is it? Why?

Because he's a queer looking little
thing, Anne. Much like yourself.

Look who's talking. This is Sneaky.

Thou art under my protection.
I will watch over thy life,

for I tell you all - one day...
you shall be kings.

Yes!

"Dear Ellen.
It was ten o'clock when I got home.

"I found Branwell ill.

"He is so very often these days,
owing to his own fault.

"I was not therefore surprised at
first, but when Anne informed me of

"the immediate cause of his present
illness, I was greatly shocked."

Charlotte! How was the journey?
Pleasant.

How was Miss Nussey? Well.

Did my box arrive safely?

In our room, we took it up,
me and Emily. What's...? Branwell.

He's been drinking.
He's had a letter. From Mr Robinson.

This last Thursday.
He's been dismissed.

How does he do it?

It's every job he's ever had.
I know, but this is different. How?

Nothing was spelled out
in the letter. But he...

Him and Mrs Robinson...

I had reason to know
that they were...

carrying on.

With one another. And I don't know,
I can only assume,

that Mr Robinson's found out,
and that's what it's about.

Carrying on? How?

Congress? Mr Robinson's wife?

It's why I resigned.
I couldn't look people in the face.

I've known for months.
Papa doesn't know.

He just knows he's been dismissed,

he doesn't know why.
Emily does. I told her.

And of course we don't know
that IS the reason. Where is Emily?

You must have some idea
what this is about!

You think repeating the question
enough times, over and over,

is suddenly going to make me
able to answer it?

And if not then someone
must write to the man

and ask for an explanation!

He hates me! He's not going
to give any kind of an explanation.

It's an excuse to get rid of me!

He's a monster, he's a bully, he's
a law unto himself. He's an idiot.

Why does he hate you? Why does
he need a reason to get rid of you?

Because he's old, he's ill
and he's jealous of me!

No, no, no.
That doesn't make any sense!

There must have been
a misunderstanding.

Has someone misrepresented you
to him?

Just... GOD!

This HOUSE! Just go to bed and stop
asking me fucking questions!

If you don't like this house,
don't stay in it.

There's none of us'll miss you,
not when you're like this.

I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED!

Tell him.

Branwell's been at it.

With his employer's wife.

She was lonely.

She was lonely!

'Tis a shame you're embarked on this
course of myopic self-destruction,

for I imagine you and I might -
under better circumstances -

have made very stimulating
company for one another!

I despise everything you stand for!
Revolution is in the air!

Only a fool like you, sir,
would ignore it!

If the parson and your Aunt Branwell
were in,

you'd noan make so much din!

They all think you're right quiet

and studious down
in t'village, y'know!

Mr Brown's here.

"Another outrage
has happened in Ireland.

"A party of Orangemen at Armagh,
on the 12th,

"unhappily disregarding
the advice given them,

"of abstaining from processions..."
Are you fit, lad?

Yeah, I'm just...

"..conducting themselves
with propriety."

John's here. We're off.

Don't get up.
No, no. I'd like to see him.

How are you today, John?
I'm very well, thank you, Mr Bronte.

Good, good.

Well, travel safely.

Picked a fine day for it, eh?

You, er, look after yourself.

Thank you.

Well...

I think, with kindness
and understanding and prayer,

we might still be able...

in spite of his naivety
and...his nonsense...

..be able to get him back
onto a proper path.

Will you bring us all something
back from Liverpool, Father?

You behave yersen.
And then we'll see.

You dozy bastard.

Getting caught.

"Anne left her situation at Thorp
Green of her own accord, June 1845.

"Branwell...left.

"We are all in decent health
only that Papa

"has a complaint in his eyes
and with the exception of Branwell,

"who I hope will be better
and do better here after.

"I am seldom more ever troubled
with nothing to do

"and merely desiring that everybody
could be as comfortable as myself

"and as undesponding of them,

"we should have
a very tolerable world of it."

They've set off.

Good. Call me old-fashioned,

but I think it's nice
having everybody back at home.

In theory. What happened?

You heard the shouting.
I had my pillow over my ears

so I didn't catch the details.
Lucky you.

So he's...been mucking about,

and by way of punishment,

he's packed off on holiday
for a week with Martha's father?

Packed off on holiday for a week,
or got shot off for a few days.

It's all a question of
how you might choose to look at it.

Tabby. Well, if that's how you feel.

Do you still write stories?
Sometimes.

About Gondal?

When we can.

Emily as well? You've been here
with her more than I have, surely.

We never talk about it.
Never?

Do you? Write?

Still? Not so much.

What about the infernal world?

I relinquished my pen.

Why? Because it frightened me.

Threatened to make
the real world seem...

pointless.
And colourless and drab.

And that way lies madness.

You know, the real world is what it
is, but we must live in it, so...

You should write, if it makes you
happy. I worry about my eyes.

And I think, as well...
when I got that reply from Southey -

"Literature cannot be the business
of a woman's life."

At the time I brushed it off.

But the longer I've dwelt on it,
the older I've got,

the more I've thought...

..what's the point?

The point...for me...

..I'm never more alive
than when I write.

You're the same, surely.

But with no prospect of publication?

It's just playing at it, isn't it?

Are we playing then, or what?

Does it ever bother you
that we might be getting...

a bit old? For that.

You weren't saying that
two weeks ago in York. No, well...

I didn't want to spoil things
in York.

It's something
I've been thinking for a while.

Well, what did you come out
with me for then? To talk.

What about? Things. At home.
Do you never think about...?

What?

The future!

What are we
without Papa and Branwell?

Papa won't... He won't live forever.

And he's blind,
and that house, our house,

it belongs to
the Church trustees, not us.

And Branwell! What's he doing?

What's he thinking
that he has such a hopeless grasp

on the realities of what comes next?

Are we nothing to him?
Does he even see us?

If we don't make
something of ourselves,

and God knows we've been trying,

I've been trying...

I was a governess at that
ludicrous place for five years!

What will we do, Emily?
What will...

What will we be?

It was when I came back
from Roe Head.

And he was there, at home,
Branwell.

And he wasn't supposed to be.

You'd gone. You and Charlotte.
You'd gone off back to Roe Head.

And he was supposed to be in London,

trying to get his foot in the door
at the Royal Academy.

That's when I knew
what a liar he was.

Sharpers? Thieves! So what?

They attacked you? You were robbed?
Four of them?! I think four.

In broad daylight? That's...

Well, surely someone saw
what happened?

You didn't even get there? No!

It was just after I arrived
at the coaching inn

at St Martin Le Grand,
and I knew my way around.

From the maps in my head.

But London...the whole thing is
so much bigger than I imagined.

And you didn't tell me
how big it was, did ya?

And I didn't know who to turn to,
with no money. So, I came home!

Well, er... Witnesses.

Surely someone must have seen
what happened.

There were no witnesses.

Everyone just turned around
and went about their business!

So all 30 shillings?

Gone? YES!

Oh!

Then, when Aunt Branwell went to bed
and Papa went back to his study,

I said to him, "You're lying."

And he admitted it.

He didn't even make it to London,

never mind any business
at any Royal Academy.

He said he was about to get on
the high-flier, in Bradford,

with his paintings and his sketches.

But then, when he was faced with the
reality of setting off for London,

he realised that they just...
weren't that good.

They might look well enough at home,

but next to a Lawrence,
or a Gainsborough...

So he fortified himself, he said,

to get courage to get on the next
coach, which was his intention.

But he didn't.

He spent four days in Bradford.

Drunk and miserable
and dreaming up some trash

that he thought everyone at home
would be blown enough to believe.

He spent 30 shillings on drink,
in four days?

I could've cheerfully murdered him,
to start with. And then...

Actually I felt sorry for him.

They always expected so much of him.

More, probably,
than he was ever capable of.

And I just thought,
"Thank God I'm not you."

It's disappointing, I know.

And I'm angry with him too.
He humiliated me at Thorp Green,

and he knew what he was doing.

But we shouldn't give up on him,
should we?

No, we shouldn't give up on him. But
we should see him for what he is.

Not what he isn't.
It's not fair on him.

I sometimes think
Charlotte despises him. Mm, well...

Charlotte has her own demons.

What demons?

Look, you know how low she's been?
For months.

To the point of making herself ill,

and convincing herself
she's going blind.

Yes? Well, you know
when we were in Brussels?

Monsieur Heger? Yes.

Well...she was very...

taken...with him.

Not when I was there.
This was after Aunt Branwell died,

when I stayed at home.

She became...

..obsessed with him.

He was married.

That's why she left. At finish.

"My dear Leyland,

"I returned yesterday

"from a week's journey
to Liverpool and North Wales,

"but I found, during my absence,

"that wherever I went,
a certain woman, robed in black

"and calling herself Misery,
walked by my side,

"and leant on my arm
as affectionately

"as if she were my legal wife.

"Like some other husbands,
I could have spared her presence."

For the food
we are about to receive,

may the Lord make us
truly thankful. Amen.

Is she feeding those dogs again? No.

Chicken, please.

More tea.

Branwell...

Yeah? Tell us something
about...Liverpool.

All right. Well,
the docks were extraordinary.

Uh-huh? We saw a black man.
A blackamoor, a Creole.

He really was black. So dark, Papa.

Ah? And I spoke to him.

Didn't really understand
what he was saying

and I don't think he understood
a word I was saying either

but it was just...fascinating.

I think he was something
on one of the ships.

Yes?

If you...

If you don't...

get on top of...

of this habit...

when things don't go right for you,

if you can't exercise
some restraint,

then it'll take over your life,
Branwell. Don't be ridiculous.

I'm not being ridiculous.

It'll destroy you. Mm.

Potentially, you still have
so much to offer, Branwell.

You need a plan.
I've got plans. Have you?

And can you share them? With anyone?

D'you know what I've realised? What?

There's no money in poetry.

Novels.
That's where the money is.

Whilst the composition of a poem

demands the utmost stretch
of a man's intellect...

..and for what?
�10 at best.

I could hum a tune
and smoke a cigar

and I'd have a novel written.

No-one will publish a novel
by an unknown author.

I've had nine poems published
in the Halifax Guardian.

It's only Halifax, I know,
but it is widely enough read.

You'd need a good story for a novel.

Oh, when was I ever
short of a story?

Are you still thinking about going
to Paris? I don't think it's likely.

At the moment.
Why? It might do you good.

Are you still hell-bent
on making yourself poorly?

I'm not...poorly.

I'm just struggling to...

Why is it that a woman's lot
is so very different to a man's?

I've never felt inferior.
Have you? Intellectually?

Why is it that we have
so very few opportunities?

You or I could do almost anything
we set our minds to. But no.

All we can realistically plan
is a school, a modest enough school,

that no-one wants to come to.

Why is it that the woman's lot
is to be perpetually infantilised...

..or else invisible and powerless
to do anything about it?

Did he never write back
to you, then?

Heger?

No.

Anne says
you've written some poems.

Have you ever thought about
publishing them? No.

It's just the...

The thing is, you see...
I've written some verses too...

and if between us we could
accumulate enough material

to think about publishing
a small volume...

And have it pored over
and rubbished and ridiculed

by anyone who might choose to waste
their money on it? Not likely.

"He comes with Western winds,
with evening's wandering airs,

"With that clear dusk of heaven
that brings the thickest stars.

"Winds take a pensive tone,
and stars a tender fire,

"And visions rise, and change,
that kill me with desire."

"High waving heather
'neath stormy blasts bending,

"Midnight and moonlight
and bright shining stars;

"Darkness and glory
rejoicingly blending,

"Earth rising to heaven
and heaven descending,

"Man's spirit away from
its drear dungeon sending,

"Bursting the fetters
and breaking the bars."

"Then dawns the Invisible;
the Unseen its truth reveals;

"My outward sense is gone,
my inward essence feels;

"Its wings are almost free -
its home, its harbour found,

"Measuring the gulf, it stoops
and dares the final bound."

"O dreadful is the check -
intense the agony -

"When the ear begins to hear,
and the eye begins to see;

"When the pulse begins to throb -
the brain to think again -

"The soul to feel the flesh,
and the flesh to feel the chain.

"Yet I would lose no sting,
would wish no torture less;

"The more that anguish racks
the earlier it will bless;

"And robed in fires of hell,
or bright with heavenly shine,

"If it but herald Death,
the vision is divine."

What's the matter?
What's the matter?

Somebody has been in my room!

Somebody?
Somebody has been through my things.

And not had the wit,
when they put them back,

to realise that everything was
in a certain order Well, who?

We haven't, I haven't.
You haven't.

You wouldn't. I know that.

Branwell's in Halifax.

It's safe to assume
Papa couldn't see to do it,

and anyway why would he bother?

Tabby's got better things to do
and Martha can't read that well.

Yet, she also has too much dignity

and respect
for other people's things!

I shouldn't have...I know.

But I'm not sorry.
I mean, I am sorry!

Look, Emily.

Your poems are...

They're extraordinary.

I know they're private,
I know they're personal -

they're 1,001 things, but they're
not something to keep hidden.

I admit it was curiosity,
but not idle curiosity, I hope,

but something more...noble. Noble?!

Going in people's bedrooms?
Going through people's things?

No woman, no-one, has ever
written poetry like this!

Nothing I've read,
nothing I can think of,

nothing published, is its equal.

Emily...they're exceptional.

They're...astonishing.

I couldn't breathe
when I was reading them.

I know you're angry and
I know what I did is unforgivable.

Except, please, see that it isn't.

You...disgust me.

You can't begin to imagine how much.

You stay out of my room
and you don't speak to me.

You don't speak to me generally and
you don't speak to me specifically

about your misguided, tedious,
grubby little publishing plans.

What on earth is the matter?

She has been in people's bedrooms
going through people's things!

I'm putting a lock on that door!

She? What happened?

Charlotte? Nothing.

It was nothing.
I went in her bedroom.

Oh!

And, um, where is Branwell?

Halifax. He's where? Halifax.

Oh. And is he due in? Tonight?

Or have we to lock the back door?
I imagine he's taken a key.

Right.

All right! I made a mistake.

Except I didn't!

They're...

Have you read them?

No.

She's never asked me to.

What did she mean about your
"grubby little publishing plans?"

They're not without charm.

It's not just the poems, you see.

I'm writing this, too.

It's a novel.

It's not Gondal and Gaaldine.

It's more about how things are
in the real world.

It's about being a governess,
it's all...

things I've seen and heard
and witnessed.

The thing is, you see, I...
This is beautifully written.

I would be ready.

To try and publish.
I would be ready to risk failure.

And who knows? This is what
we've done all our lives.

Write. We've lived in our heads.

I don't regard the attempt
to do something with it as venal.

It's more venal selling ourselves
as governesses

when we find it such a trial.

So long as we approached
it carefully, wisely,

and not make fools of ourselves,
then surely... The plan...

would be to try to publish
a volume of poetry first.

And, then, if that met with
a modicum of success,

and something of a name
was established,

then we could each risk
a work of fiction.

I've toyed with writing
something about...Brussels.

I mean, I don't even know
if that's the etiquette.

But I could write to
a publishing house and find out.

Your poems are competent...

and charming.

And I'm no great poet myself,

but Emily's contribution could
elevate a small volume

into something...

..actually worth spending
a few shillings on.

I feel sorry for her. Why?

Same reason I feel sorry
for Branwell.

So much is expected of her.
Being the eldest.

And not even the eldest.
By accident the eldest.

Bossiest. She was bossy when Maria
and Elizabeth were still alive,

I remember it. Vividly.

It's being so bossy
that's stunted her growth.

She's ambitious.

For all of us.

And I can see
nothing wrong with that.

I realise some people might think
it's vulgar, but, Emily,

we were born writing, and if we're
cautious, if we're clever,

and we are, and if we disguise
our real selves and our sex...

Right, that's done.

Tabby! I'm off down the...hill.

It's wonderful how quiet they all
think she is in t'village

and how loud she is at home.

You can come with me, if you want.

Have you ever thought about writing
something that's not Gondal?

Something more...not princesses
and emperors, more just...

what happens in the real world.

You know when I worked in Halifax?
At that school at Law Hill.

Yes. Miss Patchett, that ran it,
she told me this tale.

And I've often thought
it'd make a story. A novel.

What was it about?

This man, this lad. Jack Sharp.
Have I never told you this?

It serves us well enough, but it's
not an attractive building, I know.

It has a rather curious history.

It was built out of spite,
apparently, 60 years ago,

by a man called Jack Sharp.

So, there's this family,
the Walkers.

They own Walterclough Hall,
this big house, just above Halifax,

it's been in the family
for generations.

They're woollen manufacturers -
aren't they all?

Anyway, John Walker has four
children - two boys and two girls -

and he's adopted this nephew,
Jack Sharp.

Richard and John, the two sons,
were educated well,

and they ended up
making their livings in London.

Jack stayed at home with the girls,
Grace and Mary,

and he was trained up
to take over the family business

which suited everyone, because,
it seems, he'd always been

old Mr Walker's favourite,
the truth be told.

Then when Richard,
the eldest son, dies

in some tragic accident somewhere,

old Mr Walker decides to leave
the district and he leaves Jack

in charge of his business
and Walterclough Hall.

Eventually, some years later,
old Mr Walker himself dies,

and the remaining son, John,

in London, inherits everything
and gives Jack Sharp,

who he'd never liked, notice
to vacate the property forthwith.

But John Walker Jr
has the law on his side,

and after enough wrangling,
in court, Jack Sharp has to

vacate the property,
whether he likes it or not.

But not before he'd trashed the
place and taken anything of value.

Furniture...

..the silver, the plate, the linen.

You can only imagine
what they all went through.

The anger and the bitterness.

And then he built his own home,
a new house.

Here, at Law Hill.

The spot chosen very carefully,
people believed,

because it looks down
on Walterclough Hall.

And then he filled it with the stash
he'd purloined from the Hall.

Like he was goading John Walker
to come and fetch it. If he dared.

And did he dare? I doubt it.
But the worst thing Jack Sharp did,

one of old Mr Walker's sisters
had a son,

grown up by then, called Sam Stead.

And Jack Sharp apprenticed him
in the trade,

like he himself had been apprenticed
by old Mr Walker.

And he cleverly,
calculatedly, bit by bit,

indulged and degraded Sam Stead
with gambling and drink,

and the lad was too feckless
to know any better.

Why would you do that?

He did it to cause as much misery
and humiliation

to the Walkers as he could.

That's... I know. All that anger.
It's so...rich.

Anyway, if we're writing novels.
I imagine we'll need more paper.

Of course we're not going to
use our real names!

But must they be men's names?

When a man writes something, it's
what he's written that's judged.

When a woman writes something,
it's her that's judged.

We must select the poems
we want to use and then...

yes, if we're to be taken seriously
and judged fairly

and make anything resembling
a profit...

..we must walk invisible.

What about names that are
neither men's nor women's?

"Dear Ellen. I reached home
a little after 2 o'clock

"all safe and right yesterday.

"Emily and Anne were gone
to Keighley to meet me.

"Unfortunately,
I had returned by the old road

"while they were gone by the new,
and we missed each other."

I'm back home.

Ah, Charlotte...

Miss Bronte!

Mr Nicholls.

"I went into the room where
Branwell was, to speak to him.

"It was very forced work
to address him.

"I might have spared myself
the trouble as he took no notice..."

Branwell?

"..and made no reply."

Branwell.

"He was stupefied."

What's this?

Branwell? What's this?

That's for you.

I opened it by mistake.
It said "Esquire."

Give me that.

Proof pages!

How much are you paying them for
the privilege of being published?

I assume you're paying them.

I assume you've all
clubbed together.

I assume they're not paying you.

You've been sick.

I didn't confirm or deny,
I made no reply.

I don't care about him knowing
we're paying them,

it's a means to an end
as far as I'm concerned.

I care about him talking to people.

About us. Where's he got the money
from anyway? To get into that state?

He screwed a sovereign out of Papa,
yesterday. He claimed to have

some pressing matter, and Papa said
no. And the next thing you know

he's given it to him. God knows how
or why and he's trotting off

down the hill to get it changed
at the Black Bull.

Perhaps, when he's sober,
he'll not even remember he's seen

our proof sheets. I'll write to
Aylott and Jones and ask them

to address our correspondence
differently in future.

Was he angry, Branwell?
What can we do?

We can't include him, the way
he is now! He's unmanageable!

We'd never get anything
agreed or done!

Anyway, why would Northangerland
want to publish with his sisters?

He certainly couldn't afford
to contribute to the costs.

We're doing the right thing, Anne.

It's hard, it's tough,

but I'm sorry, he'd drag us down
with him if we let him.

Right, come on, you big oaf.

That way. Shift.

Hello, Joe.

Well, I never.

Eh?

How y'doing, lad? I've resolved
this morning to keep myself busy.

Good.

Good!

Me too.

I thought I'd go and see
John Frobisher.

I thought I might write
something to set to music.

And he'd be the man.
He is still here, isn't he?

At the church?
So far as I know, yeah.

Have y'not thought any more
about going abroad?

Not... No...

I haven't seen any vacancies,

at least nothing, you know...

Not with the way things are
at the moment.

How are things at home?

It's like living with people

who don't speak
the same language as I do.

Honestly, Joe.
I could be with some tribe

from some far flung corner
of the globe

for all I have in common with them.

They despise me,

and I...

I only live there because
I'm such a fucking pauper.

They need to get married,
those three.

Only, who'd have 'em?

Who'd have any of us?

What a ridiculous set we've become.

And we used to be
quite a nice little family.

She...she does love me, you know,
Joe, Lydia.

Yeah. Well...
You know, I don't know.

I wasn't there, I can't say.

I know everyone thinks I'm...

God knows, but if you saw her,

if only for a moment,
you'd get it, you'd see.

What would I see?

That she's the kind of woman
that can change a man's life.

His whole...everything.

You've got to look forward,
though, eh? Not back.

We've talked about this.

Am I boring you, Leyland?

No, lad. No. You're not boring me.

I worry that you're kidding yerself.

Eh?

A woman her age, in her position.

My only hope is that he'll be dead
soon and I'll be asked back.

Hello.

Hello.

Look.

I know.

Ahh, it's beautiful!

The same moon that's shone down
since we were children.

Since our ancestors were children.

We're so tiny, really.

Aren't we? So...

..so unimportant.

All of us.

That's right.

Bloody dogs.

There's a fella in Black Bull
lookin' for thee. Who?

He says he's from Thorp Green.

Who?

I'll get my coat.

Shift!

Is there a fella looking for me?
Aye, he's through there.

Mr Bronte.

Someone's dead. Mr Robinson.

He passed away three weeks
this last Tuesday.

Did you not know?

No. How could I?

Well, it's been in t'papers.

We don't get the York papers.

You're advised...

..to stay away.

Does she not...want me
to go to her?

She didn't say that.

No, it isn't her.

It's Mr Evans.

One of the trustees
of Mr Robinson's will.

Apparently...he's said
if he sees you, he'll shoot you.

Did he send you?

No. No.

She did.

She was concerned you might turn up.

And that Mr Evans might feel
obliged to do as he's threatened.

But, as well as that,
you should know

by the terms of the will...

..that if she marries again,

she'll forfeit any right
to her husband's fortune.

What?

Every penny.

And the house.

She...

She asked me not to tell you
how wretched she is.

You'd not recognise her, Mr Bronte.

She's worn herself out these past
few months in attendance upon him.

And then, the last few days
before his death,

his manner was so mild, so, er...

..conciliatory.

It's a pity to see her,
kneeling at her prayers.

In tears.

I suppose we can only guess at

what torments of conscience
she might be going through...

..now.

But...she sent you.

Hm.

To beg you to think of
your own safety, Mr Bronte.

And her sanity.

Which...

below stairs,

we fear hangs by a thread.

I don't give a damn
about my own safety.

No.

But the thing is...

..it's never going to happen,
Mr Bronte.

Do you understand?

You're advised to stay away.

Mr Brown! Mr Brown!

Mr Brown! What do you want,
you little bugger?

You've to come! Mr Thomas at
Black Bull says you've to come!

Now what? God knows.

There were a fella here.

Paddy? Come on, lad. What's up?
I sent for thee.

Look at state he's in...
No, you've done right.

Come on, lad.

BRANWELL WEEPS

Come on, you're all right.

Nothing I do, John.

You're just tired. Nothing I do.

Let's get you home. Come on.

Why are we going up here?
It's where you live.

I don't want to go home,
I don't want to go home.

Well, where d'you want to go, then?

Keighley.

I think meself
you'd be better off at home.

No, no! I need to go to
Thorp Green, John.

I need to go to Thorp Green.

Fair enough, but not just now,
not today, not in this state.

Yes, in this state.
This is the right state.

Well, you can. I can't, obviously,

it's two o'clock in the afternoon,
I've to get to work.

Ah, Mr Nicholls.

He's... He's had a bad do,

he's had a bit of bad news.

Down you go.

Nearly there.

Careful. Nearly there.

Calm down. Get off me!
Please, keep your voice down.

Shut up, I hate you!

Tell me to calm down
in my own house!

I want to kill you!

Get your hands off me! Calm down.
Don't tell me to calm down.

I don't want you
to tell me anything.

My house!

Nothing wrong with me.

Look at them, all looking at me!

They're always looking at me!

With your stupid, empty faces!

Please, stop looking at me!

Just stop.

And him!

What do you want, eh?

You've had everything!

You've had everything
you're getting.

You just stand there
staring at me all the time!

I hate you!

Come on upstairs, have a lie down.

Have a few knock-out drops, eh?

Eh? Come on.

Ohh...I feel sick.

Come on.

Up we go. You heard him. Lift me up.

I can do it!

Sorry. Sorry.

"Dear Ellen.

"We have been somewhat
more harassed than usual lately.

"The death of Mr Robinson has served
Branwell for a pretext

"to throw all about him
into hubbub and confusion.

"He's become intolerable.

"To Papa he allows rest
neither day nor night and

"he's continually screwing money
out of him, sometimes threatening

"that he'll kill himself
if it's withheld from him."

Morning, Miss Bronte. Thank you.

Are you stupid
as well as blind?

There's nothing out there!

Not for someone
who's fit for nothing, like me!

"He says Mrs Robinson is now insane,
that her mind is a complete wreck,

"owing to remorse for her conduct
towards Mr Robinson,

"whose end it appears was hastened
by distress of mind,

"and grief for having lost him.

"I do not know how much to believe
of what he says.

"He now declares that he neither can
nor will do anything for himself.

"Good situations have been offered
more than once,

"for which by a fortnight's work
he might have qualified himself,

"but he will do nothing except
drink and make us all wretched."

Just tell me where it is!

I beg you to recognise it -
you are ill!

Two reviews. One from The Critic
one from The Athenaeum.

Both anonymous,
but both really, really quite good.

Especially about you.

"Refreshing, vigorous poetry,
no sickly affectations,

"no namby-pamby, no tedious
imitations of familiar strains."

Are they still fighting?

Are you going to be all right?

When I go to Manchester with Papa?

It's only three weeks. I'm more
concerned about when he comes back.

He'll need rest and quiet.
Not...

Oh, did you get what you wanted?

Yeah, you!
Are you proud of yourself, eh?

Wangling money out of a blind man?
A man practically in his 70s.

Fuck off. Eh! Come back here and say
that. Yeah, go on. Have a go.

See what happens. I haven't time.

No? Just the blind and the elderly
then, is it?

Otherwise I would.

Course you would!

It's nothing.

Did he just hit you?

Don't make a fuss.

I'm still aiming to finish my story
by the end of this week.

There's a handful of passages
I'd like to look at again,

but then, depending on where
you and Anne are with yours...

Oh, The Professor's finished.
As much as it ever will be.

Perhaps we could aim to get them off
to a publisher

before you set off for Manchester.

Emily.

Good luck.

And you.

Keep him wrapped up, see.

All the bags on?
Everything's under control, Papa.

Has she heard? Yes! I've heard.
Emily, Emily.

You know where the gun is?

Yes.

We're all in. Thank you.

I'll send you the address
as soon as we know what it is.

Walk on!

Branwell doesn't know
where the gun is. Does he?

Not any more.

Is he still abed?

Daft question.

You give him no money.

Whatever sob stories
he comes up with.

All right?

He won't hit you.

And if he hits me,
I'll hit him back. Harder.

"Dear Ellen. Papa and I came here
on Wednesday.

"We saw Mr Wilson, the oculist,
the same day.

"He pronounced Papa's eyes
quite ready for an operation

"and has fixed next Monday
for the performance of it."

"Think of us on that day, dear Nell.

"Mr Wilson says we will have to
stay here a month at least.

"It will be dreary.

"I wonder how poor Emily and Anne
will get on at home with Branwell."

Thank you.

"...not able at present
to consider publication."

Do you think
they actually read them?

Do they look like they've been read?

Who's next on the list?

Chapman and Hall,
186 Strand, London.

"There was no possibility...

"..of taking a walk that day."

Do you think it's wrong to write
about something very close to home?

Like what?

A woman...

..forced to abandon her home.
A good, well-off home,

to protect her child and herself,

because of a change in her husband's
character when he sinks into...

You know, addictive behaviour.

And then forced to make her own way
in the world.

No. I don't think it's wrong.

I'd never have invented Hindley

if I hadn't been set
such a fine example at home.

Have you seen Branwell today?
No.

Have you heard him?

"I see a corpse
upon the waters lie,

"With eyes turned,
swelled and sightless, to the sky

"And arms outstretched,
to move as wave on wave

"Upbears it
in its boundless billowy grave.

"Not time, but Ocean thins
its flowing hair;

"Decay, not sorrow,
lays its forehead bare;

"Its members move,
but not in thankless toil,

"For seas are milder
than this world's turmoil.

"Corruption robs its lip
and cheeks of red,

"But wounded vanity grieves
not the dead;

"And, though those members
hasten to decay,

"No pang of suffering takes
their strength away;

"With untormented eye,
and heart, and brain,

"Through calm and storm
it floats across the main.

"Though love and joy
have perished long ago,

"Its bosom suffers
not one pang of woe;

"Though weeds and worms
its cherished beauty hide,

"It feels not wounded vanity
or pride."

Where's ye going, lad?

Haworth.

Whoa. Whoa!

Go on!

Oh, hello.

Branwell!

Branwell's here! He's collapsed!
He's outside!

Branwell?

Branwell.

Branwell?

One of you go and fetch
Dr Wheelhouse.

Get a cloak on!

Let's get him inside.

Branwell, eh?

Come on, son, sit up.

Let's get him in the house. Come on.

You know where I am. Yes, yes.

Thank you for coming, Doctor.

There is hope.

He's home, he's back with us.

And, with nourishment
and abstinence,

and prayer, and peace and quiet,

we may yet hope for better things.

His body has suffered the ravages
of gross neglect. And...

abuse.

Self inflicted.

And I cannot, in all conscience,

do other than blame that woman.

That...sinful, hateful woman.

Who, with her more mature years
and social advantages,

surely should have shown
better responsibility.

He has come very low.

But, you know, sometimes
a man must sink to the bottom

before he can turn his life around.

And perhaps that's what's happened,
what's happening.

Here. Where's he been?

How's he been living?

Does he want to abstain?

Oh, he has to. He has to abstain.

Halifax, I assume.

I don't know. That's where
John always imagined he was.

Or where John knew
damned well he was.

Have you talked to him?
About abstention?

He's asleep.

It'll only work if he's determined
to do it himself.

Anne. Ssh!

I...

Anne.

I should have done more.
At Thorp Green.

I should have stopped him,
I should've told someone,

I should've...

I'm...complicit in their sin.

No, you're not.

You were in an impossible position.
I let it happen.

All I did was leave, in the end...

I was a coward.

A moral coward, before God.

Are you all right, lad?

Lydia.

Wake up! Wake up! There's a fire.

I think I've put it out.

Branwell! Branwell! Branwell!

Look at me.

Branwell!

Delirium tremens.

It's when someone

who's been drinking solidly
for weeks suddenly stops.

Either through choice
or, more usually, lack of funds.

The body doesn't know how
to respond, so it goes into spasm.

Will it happen again?

With care...no.

But you do need
to keep an eye on him.

He's lucky.
You could've been sending

for the undertaker this morning,
Mr Bronte, not me.

I think
rather than come back in here,

he should stay
in my bedroom with me.

For the time being.

I wrote a rhyme for you.

Did you?

Well, I wrote it, and I was thinking
about you, after I'd written it.

So...

It goes...

D'you want to hear it?

Yes.

It starts, it's...

The first line is...

It goes...

"No coward soul is mine

"No trembler in the world's
storm-troubled sphere

"I see Heaven's glories shine

"And Faith shines equal
arming me from Fear..."

Take your time.

"Oh, God, within my breast...

"Oh, God, within my breast

"Almighty ever-present Deity

"Life
That in me hast rest,

"As I Undying Life,
have power in Thee

"Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts

"Unutterably vain,

"Worthless as withered weeds

"Or idlest froth
amid the boundless main

"To waken doubt in one...

"To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity,

"So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality

"With wide-embracing love

"Thy spirit animates eternal years

"Pervades and broods above

"Changes, sustains, dissolves,
creates and rears

"Though earth and moon were gone

"And suns and universes ceased to be

"And Thou wert left alone

"Every existence would exist in thee

"There is not room for Death

"Nor atom that his might
could render void

"Since thou art Being and Breath

"And what thou art
may never be destroyed."

There's nothing
to be frightened of.

Not for someone like you.

I love you.

Good.

I love you.

Who? Currer. Bell.

There's no-one of that name here.
No, I know that, Mr Bronte,

only it's addressed to here, so...
That's a mystery.

There's no-one of that name
in the entire parish,

as far as I'm aware.

No, well, that's why I thought
happen a visitor.

No, no. No visitors.

Not at the moment.

Fair enough, I'll take it back
to sorting office then.

Ah, morning, Miss Bronte.
Did I hear the name?

Currer Bell? Yes.

Good. That's not me. Obviously.
But if I could take it,

I can make sure it reaches him.

Him.

You see, he... Papa, he forgets.

He's... Mr Bell, he's not here.

He was here. But now...he isn't.

So, I can forward it to him.
I have his address.

It's a funny name.

Currer. I thought happen it were
summat to do wi' Mr Nicholls.

Arthur Bell Nicholls. No.
No, no, no, that's... It's just...

That's just coincidental.
Can I take it?

Good! Well, that saves me filling in
a docket back at sorting office.

I'm much obliged. And so will he be.

How's your...brother? Is he...?

Oh, he...

He's...you know.

Till tomorrow, then! Miss Bronte.

Bye! Bye. Bye.

Where's Emily?

Kitchen. D'you want her?

Letter from a publisher.

Emily!

Thomas Cautley Newby

is offering to publish
Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey.

His terms are steep,
but he's offering to publish them,

which is more than anyone else
has done, so...

What about The Professor?

No.

No, he's not offering
to publish that. Why?

So you need to think about how you
want to approach this. No, that's...

We should publish them
all together or not at all. Surely.

That's sentimental, it's kind,

but it's nonsense.

This is a solid offer,
not a generous one, as I say,

but I'll persevere in sending out
The Professor

and with the other one
that I've been writing.

But in the meantime, you've got
a choice to make. Read it.

He's asking for you to provide
an advance of �50

towards the cost of publication.

But clearly he believes it's viable
or he wouldn't make the offer.

This is addressed to Currer Bell.
Yes. That was interesting.

You didn't...
Of course not! I had to...

..fib.

�50.

Perhaps that's normal. Perhaps
whoever undertook to publish it

would ask for an advance
of that sort.

We're a risk, we're unknown, despite
the poems. Because of the poems.

Two copies sold.

You will...persist?

Oh, yes.

Yes?

I'd like to speak to Mr Bronte.

The Reverend Bronte?

Mr Patrick Bronte.

What shall I say it's to do with?

Is he in?

Who wants to know?

I'm a bailiff of the county
appointed by Mr Rawson,

the magistrate at Halifax.

I'm here about an unpaid debt.
Is Mr Bronte in?

I'll...

You'll just have to
give me a minute.

Yes?

The's a man at the door, Mr Bronte.

He says he's here about
an unpaid debt.

He says he's been sent
by a magistrate at Halifax.

Now, then, gentlemen. How may I help
you? Mr Patrick Bronte? Yes.

I'm appointed by the Magistrate
at Halifax to collect a debt of

�14, 10s 6d,

owing to Mr Crowther of the
Commercial in Northgate, Halifax,

and now outstanding
for a total of eight months.

What's going on?
Branwell, what's going on?

Branwell...

Shift. Shift...

Whoa, whoa, whoa!

Not so fast, little fella.
Steady now!

You don't want me to hurt you.

And you don't want to hurt me,
cos, if you do,

there'll be bother. Get off me!

I think it must be
my son that you want.

Your son? Right, well,
where is your son, Mr Bronte?

I've got him, Mr Riley!

Emily! Get him off me! I can't
breathe, Emily! Stop wriggling!

Stop struggling! You're not going
anywhere! I've done nothing wrong!

You've got the wrong man!
What were you legging it for then?

And why did you try and hit me,
you little twat.

Get your hands off me!
Are you Patrick Bronte? Up!

Are you Patrick Branwell Bronte?

Answer the man!

I have no idea who these people are.

You owe money
to some publican in Halifax.

And if the debt isn't paid,

they'll take you
to the debtors' prison.

You'd best pay up then, eh?

Take him.

What?

No! Papa, I'm sorry!
I'm sorry! I'm sorry!

I didn't mean it! I'm sorry!
Charlotte! Emily!

We have money. We have money!
We have money, please stop them.

Please. Hang on, boys!

Bring him back. If it's all right
with you, Reverend,

my colleagues'll keep hold of him
until I've got the remittance.

I shall require a receipt.

I shall give you one.

Come on.

It's all right.

"Gentlemen. I have received
your communication

"of the 5th instant,
for which I thank you.

"Your objection to the want of
varied interest in The Professor is,

"I am aware, not without grounds.

"I have a second narrative
in three volumes now completed,

"to which I have endeavoured
to impart a more vivid interest

"than belongs to The Professor.

"I send you per rail a manuscript,
entitled Jane Eyre,

"a novel in three volumes
by Currer Bell."

One of us is not going to
leave that room alive!

I will either kill you
or I will kill myself!

Do you want me to kill myself? Eh?

Cos if I do, old man,
you can rest assured

that you'll have driven me to it

with your endless prayers
and your drivel!

Can you not understand,
can you not get the idea

that the only...only respite I have
from the misery of my existence

is being allowed
a little bit of something to drink.

I'm only asking for a shilling,
for God's sake!

Just...just take it.

He'll just go on and on until
he gets what he wants anyway.

And I just...

..I don't always have the energy...

..any more.

I know this is contradicting
what I've said before, but...

..my second thoughts are,
occasionally,

better than my first ones.

I think you should tell Papa
about Jane Eyre.

About how successful it's been.

Why?

I think it would help him to know

that we now seem to have found
a means of supporting ourselves,

possibly, in the event of...
whenever something happens to him.

Why Jane Eyre?

No, we'll tell him about everything,
but just...as a way in.

But then...he'll read it.

Now?

Hello?

Papa?

Have you got a moment?

Yeah, quickly.

I've...

I've...I've been writing a book.

A book. And... Oh, well...

Would you like to read it?

No, I can't.

I don't have time.

And you know, with your tiny,
little writing, I can't see it.

But well done.

The thing is, you see...
it's published.

It's been published,

it's a properly published...
it's a book in three volumes.

Well, well!

Currer Bell.

No, he's famous, he's...
No, that's me.

That's you? What's you?!

That...

I've published under a pseudonym.

Currer Bell.
You see, it's the same initials.

And the thing is, it's just about
to go into a second edition.

It's...sold a lot of copies.

It's been really
quite unusually successful.

There's a stage play of it
in rehearsal as we speak

at a theatre in...
the Victoria Theatre, in fact,

in London.

It's been so, um...

hugely well received.

But I...

So...you're...?

You're...?! Yes.

And...I've made money.

With the prospect of making
quite a lot more.

And if we...if I continue
to work hard

and produce the kind of writing

that people are prepared
to pay money for,

then it should furnish us
with a comfortable existence.

Would you like me to read you
some of the reviews?

Well, I...

Why have you kept it such a secret?
To protect ourselves.

We've been accused of
vulgarity and coarseness.

I have "forfeited my right to be
called a member of the fairer sex"

according to Lady Eastlake,

who speculates that Currer Bell
might actually be a woman

and complicit in the revolutions
throughout Europe.

"We do not hesitate to say
that the tone of mind and thought

"which has overthrown authority
and violated every code -

"human and divine - abroad,

"and fostered Chartism
and rebellion at home,

"is the same which has also written
Jane Eyre."

Jane Eyre.

And why is it vulgar?
It isn't, Papa!

People are just squeamish about
the truth, about real life.

Our work is clever.
It's truthful.

It's new, it's fresh, it's vivid
and subtle and forthright.

But...more importantly,
the point is...

..we didn't want Branwell to know.

That's first and foremost
why we've kept it a secret.

It's not that he'd be scathing,
we can stand that.

It's because it's what
he always wanted to do.

And now it looks less and less
likely that he ever will,

it'd be like rubbing salt
into a wound.

No-one can ever know who we are.
We've agreed.

We just didn't want you
to worry that we weren't

doing anything with ourselves,
because we have been. We are!

So, who else knows, besides me?

No-one. I've not even told Ellen.

Tabby?

No-one. The publishers
don't even know who we are.

They think we're three men.

We'd like to keep it that way.
We just wanted you to know.

Little Helen Burns.

That's your little sister, Maria.

Maria was our big sister.

Yeah. Of course she was.

Of course she was.

Not a day passes
when I don't think about her.

And little Elizabeth.

And your mother.

I am very proud of you.

I always have been.

"Sunday.

"Dear John, I shall feel
very much obliged to you

"if can contrive to get me

"fivepence-worth of gin
in a proper measure.

"Should it be speedily got, I could
perhaps take it from you or Billy

"at the lane top or what would be
quite as well, sent out for, to you.

"I anxiously ask the favour because
I know the good it will do me.

"Punctually, at half past nine
in the morning, you will be paid

"the fivepence out of a shilling
given me then.

"Yours, PBB."

(Have you got a minute?)

What?
We're going to have to go to London.

Who is? We are. All three of us.

When? Today.

Why?

Your...

Mr Newby must've... I don't know...

sold the first few pages of
The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall

to an American publisher
on the understanding

that it was written Currer Bell.

Well, it's obviously
a misunderstanding.

No. Will you...

please...see

that this man is a con man.
A rogue!

How many mistakes did
he print in Wuthering Heights?

Proofs that you painstakingly
corrected that he ignored,

and now this.
My publisher is livid

that I could have sold my next novel
to another publisher.

They have first refusal
of my next two novels,

and now they think I'm some kind of
unscrupulous double-dealer!

Well, just write and explain. No.

No, we have to go to London

and give ocular proof
that we are three separate people,

the novels are not all the work
of one person,

and that this is absolute trash.

Well, I'm not going.

Why? Because you can write a letter
and explain all that,

and just say that Newby's made
a mistake. This is not a mistake!

This is a deliberate
and deceitful attempt

to cash in on the success
of Jane Eyre. Sorry.

It isn't! It is!

Newby has made the mistake,
along with a lot of other people,

of assuming we're all one person,
that is all it is.

Why are you so obtuse?

Why are you so melodramatic?

Emily!

I don't want The Tenant
Of Wildfell Hall promoted and sold

on a deceitful...
misunderstanding, whichever,

that it's by anyone other than me.

We have to go to London.

Now.

Today.

And explain to Mr Smith and Mr
Smith Williams what's happened.

It's intolerable to imagine they
could think I could be so slippery.

But, wait, look, you can't.

You can't go to London
and explain who you are

because they will see you.
That's the whole point.

Yes, and you promised -
you promised me -

that we would never reveal ourselves
to anyone. Ever.

Well...

I'm afraid because of
your...Mr Newby...

..we now find ourselves in a...
situation.

Emily...I think we should go.

No! You're not going, either.

No, I am! No, you're not.

Newby's compromised my integrity
just as much as Charlotte's.

I shan't publish with him again.

If you won't come with us,
that's...that's your choice.

We don't need to fall out
about this, Emily.

It's about your novel -
and your name.

It's got NOTHING to do with me!

Don't be like that, Em...

What's the matter?

Emily.

Yes, but you do know her bark's
worse than her bite, don't you?

Charlotte...

Jane Eyre.

Look.

Can I help you, ladies?

Yes.

Yes, I'd...

We'd like to speak to
Mr George Smith, please.

Mr Smith?

Mr Smith's very busy.

Yes...

But the thing is, you see...
It's important.

Can I tell him what it's about?

Just...

Just that it's a matter
of importance.

I'll, er... I'll see what...

I'll see if he's got a minute.

Who should I say is asking
to see him? It's...

That's delicate.

He is a very busy man.

We've been travelling
for 17 hours,

and we'll take up less than
one minute of his time.

Sir, two ladies asking to see you.
What ladies?

Didn't give a name, sir.
What's it about?

The only thing I could prise out,
sir, is that it's important.

To me or to them? They've asked for
no more than a minute of your time.

They say they've travelled
for 17 hours.

Ladies. How can I help you?

Am I addressing Mr George Smith?
Yes.

It's a confidential matter.

We're...

We're here to address
a misunderstanding,

which, once accomplished,
will be to everyone's advantage,

yours as much as ours.

And so we apologise
for what must be an interruption

to your morning's work.

But perhaps if I gave you this,
it would clarify who we are.

Where did you get this letter?

In the post. From you.

You sent it to me.

I am...Currer Bell.

C Bronte, that's me.

And this is Acton Bell,

author of Agnes Grey.

The point is, author of
The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall, not me.

And Ellis couldn't come.
Ellis didn't want to come.

Ellis is... Anyway...the point is...

we are three sisters.

I have not sold the first few pages
of my next novel

to an America publisher, as claimed
by Mr Thomas Cautley Newby.

That is not my novel, it's Acton's.

I...Mr Smith, have nothing, exactly
nothing, to do with Mr Newby.

And nor will my sister, now she has
seen him in his true colours.

We are people of integrity.

And probity.

And that is why we are here.

To set matters straight.

Sorry, you're...

You are Currer Bell?

What makes you doubt it, Mr Smith?

My accent? My gender? My size?

Oh, good heavens!

Oh, good Lord!

Forgive me, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, too,
we've caught you off-guard.

But you see, we felt it best
to come and see you in person,

given the tone of your letter.

I wanted no room left for any
further misunderstanding or doubt.

That's deeply, deeply appreciated,
Miss...

Bronte.

And a great relief, of course.

Have you really been travelling
for 17 hours?

Through the night. Such was
the tone of your letter that..

You must be exhausted.

Oddly, Mr Smith,
I feel extraordinarily awake.

Where are you staying?

We've booked into the Chapter
Coffee House. In Paternoster Row.

Our father stayed there briefly
before he went up to Cambridge.

And my sister and I,
my other sister, Ellis, did once,

before we travelled to Brussels.
You've taken my breath away.

Miss Bronte.
Oh, you have to meet people.

Have you any idea how many people
want to... Thackeray!

Thackeray, Thackeray...
Thackeray will have to meet you.

Er...Kent, Kent.

Kent! Fetch Smith Williams!
You have to meet Smith Williams.

He...he is such an admirer
of...of...of...

He was...

..of your genius.

He was the one that read...that read
The Professor, and saw instantly,

before Jane Eyre -
which is glorious, by the way -

um, he saw...

he saw, he saw, Miss Bronte.

The whole of literary London -
the whole of London -

will fall over itself
to spend a minute

in the company of Currer Bell.

Um, somebody really needs

to do something about this Mr Newby,
though, Mr Smith.

Absolutely, indeed.
He will be dealt with.

Please, please, come through
to my office.

Ah, Smith Williams!

This...

This is...

Currer Bell.

Oh, how perfect.

How delightful.

And this is Acton...Bell.

Ellis couldn't come.
Do you like opera?

BRANWELL COUGHS

I'll see to him,
I'll sit with him.

Are you sure?

You go sleep in their bed.

Branwell.

I'm going to be sick.

HE VOMITS

You're back!

That was quick!
All the way to London.

How were things here? Oh, well,

we've had sad work with Branwell.
But other than that...

Good. Good.

You're the last person in the world
I want to fall out with.

I know.

We only told Mr Smith
and Mr Smith Williams.

Well, and Newby, later.

No-one else. We made it clear they
hadn't to tell anyone else either.

They took us
to the Royal Opera House,

Mr Smith and Mr Smith Williams did,

with Mr Smith's mother
and his sisters,

and us with nothing to wear
but what we'd gone in.

They'd no idea who we were!

Heaven alone knows what
they must have thought about us.

He's...

What?

Branwell.

He's been vomiting blood.

"Dear Ellen,

"I received your letter informing us

"of the time of your arrival
in Keighley with great delight.

"Emily and Anne anticipate
your long-delayed visit

"as eagerly as I do, myself.

"We will be outside the Devonshire
Arms promptly at two o'clock.

"Wishing you a safe
and comfortable journey."

Anyone for Keighley?

Ellen!

Charlotte!

Emily!

Anne! Miss Nussey.

Which one's your box?
Is it this one?

Yes, that one there.
How was your journey?

Long, tiresome.

We haven't seen you for so long.

I know, I've missed you.

Shall we go? Yes.

In the end I realised
we'd delay your visit forever

if we weren't careful.

And he's so quiet now.

We barely see him during the day.
He just sleeps.

I think more people have crosses
to bear than we realise.

On the domestic side.

On the quiet.

The oddest thing -
I think I told you -

The Robinson girls, you know the
youngest two, Elizabeth and Mary?

They've started writing to Anne.

About six months after
their father died.

I mean, they're very fond of Anne,
more than she imagined.

Then they wanted to visit. Here.

So we let them,
and they came last week.

Of course, Branwell knew
nothing about it.

What were they like? Oh.

You know.

Pretty. Vacuous.

Non-stop yak-yak-yak.

Emily popped her head in,

purely to satisfy her own curiosity,
of course,

and then, after approximately
four seconds, withdrew.

It's one of the few occasions
I've really enjoyed her surliness.

Anyway, the point is,
they told us last week...

..that their mother...

What?

..is going to marry...

Sir Edward Scott.

So much for contrition
and guilt and madness

and clauses in people's wills.

He's been very sadly used, Branwell.

You didn't tell him?

What purpose would it serve?

I'm sorry to inflict
all this on you, Ellen.

Charlotte, I'm your oldest friend.

You can tell me anything,
you know that.

Look!

What is that? It's extraordinary.

It's three suns!

What is it? It's beautiful.

It's you three.

You can go now.

You'll have to sit him up
to get his shirt off.

'Tis a shame you're embarked on this
course of myopic self-destruction!

'I despise everything you stand for!

'Revolution is in the air!

'Only a fool like you, sir,
would ignore it!'

..this is the famous
dining room table,

at which the sisters used to sit
and write.

Have you been inspired by the story
of the Bronte sisters?

To unlock your own creativity, and
watch behind-the-scenes interviews

with the cast and crew go to...

..and follow the links
to the Open University.