Original subtitles

WOMAN: We wove a web in childhood, A web of sunny air;

We took 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 mouldered 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 martyrs 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.

Pray tell you all, one day you shall be kings.

ALL: Yes!

(CHURCH BELL RINGS)

WOMAN: 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.

(MAN SHOUTING)

- 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 that is the reason.

Where is Emily?

MAN: You must have some idea what this is about.

Do you think repeating the question enough times, over and over,

is gonna 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 gonna 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, hm?

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 who'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.

(THUNDER)

(SCREAMING)

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, and only a fool like you, sir, would ignore it.

If the parson and your Aunt Branwell were in, you'd not make so much din.

They all think you're right quiet and studious down in t' village, you know.

Oh!

(YELLING)

Mr Brown's here.

(CHARLOTTE READS ALOUD)

- You fit, lad? - Yeah. I'm just...

Conducting themselves with propriety...

(KNOCKING AT DOOR)

John's here. We're off.

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

- How are you today, John? - Very well, thank you, Mr Bronte.

MR BRONTE: Good, good. Well, travel safely.

It's a fine day for it, eh?

You 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 yoursen and then we'll see.

You dozy bastard. Getting caught.

EMILY: 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 hereafter.

I am seldom more ever troubled with nothing to do

and merely desiring that everybody could be

as comfortable as myself and as undesponding,

for then 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.

Mm. In theory.

- What happened? - You heard the shouting.

Had me pillow over me 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 of for a few days.

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

- Oh, well, if that's how you feel... - (BARKS)

- EMILY: Have you nothing better to do? - TABBY: Oh, I've got plenty to do.

Sit down.

- Do you still write stories? - Sometimes.

About Gondal?

When we can.

Emily as well?

You've been here with her more than I have.

- 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...

is 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, about our 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?

EMILY: 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, 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.

MR BRONTE: What, 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 you?

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

Well... witnesses. Surely someone must have seen what happened.

No, there were no witnesses.

Everyone just turned around and went about their business.

So all 30 shillings... gone?

Yes!

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 Highflyer 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 the 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 have 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.

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. - 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.

BRANWELL: 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.

MR BRONTE: For the food we are about to receive,

may the Lord make us truly thankful.

- Amen. - Amen.

- Is she feeding those dogs again? - EMILY: No.

Chicken, please.

My tea.

- Branwell. - Yeah.

Well, tell us something about Liverpool.

Ah. Well, the docks were extraordinary.

- Uh-huh. - We saw a black man.

A blackamoor, a Creole.

He really was black.

- So dark, Papa. - Uh-huh.

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.

(BRANWELL CHUCKLES)

(CHUCKLING CONTINUES)

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,

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? Ten pounds at best.

I could hum a tune, 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?

EMILY: Are you still thinking about going to Paris?

CHARLOTTE: I don't think it's likely... at the moment.

EMILY: 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.

Mm.

Anne says you've written some poems.

Have you 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.

EMILY: 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

lts wings are almost free, lts 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.

(DOOR SLAMS)

(HEAVY FOOTSTEPS)

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.

But, look, Emily, your poems are...

They're extraordinary.

I know they're private, personal, they're a thousand and one things,

but they're not something to keep hidden.

I... 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... I went in her bedroom.

(CHUCKLES)

(SIGHS)

And, um, where is Branwell?

- Halifax. - He's where?

- Halifax. - Oh. Is he due in tonight?

Or have we to lock the back door?

- I'd imagine he's taken a key. - MR BRONTE: Right.

Alright, 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've been 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,

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 perhaps I can 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. 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 would 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 Junior 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.

EMILY: 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 that 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,

just 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.

(CHURCH BELLS RING)

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?

(CHURCH BELLS RING)

CHARLOTTE: Dear Ellen.

I reached home a little after two 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 'em 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, hm?

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.

I care about him talking to people about us.

Where's he got the money from to get into that state?

He screwed a sovereign out of Papa yesterday.

He claimed to have some pressing matter and Papa said no.

Next thing you know, he's given it to him, God knows how or why,

and he's trotting off 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 their 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.

And anyway, why would Northangerland want to publish with his sisters?

Well, 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 you doing, lad?

I've resolved this morning to... keep myself busy.

Good.

Good. Me too.

I thought I would go and see John Frobisher.

I thought I might write something to set to music and he'd be the man.

He... And he's still here, isn't he, at the church?

So far as I know, yeah.

Have you 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?

Ah.

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 gotta 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 yourself. - Eh?

Awoman her age, in her position...

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

EMILY: Hello.

Hello.

Look.

BRANWELL: I know.

(GROANS)

Ah, 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.

(DOGS BARK)

(BOTH CHUCKLE)

BRANWELL: Bloody dogs.

(HOWLS)

(HOWLS)

(BOTH HOWL)

(DOGS HOWLAND BARK)

There's a fella in t' Black Bull looking for thee.

- Who? - He says he's from Thorp Green.

Who?

I'm gonna 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 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, um...

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... 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.

Hmm.

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.

(MAN) 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 t' Black Bull says you've to come.

- Now what? - God knows.

- There were a fella here and... - Paddy? Come on, lad.

- I thought I'd best send for thee. - What's up?

- The state he's in... - No, you've done right.

- Come on, lad. - (SOBS)

Come on, you're alright.

Nothing I do, John...

- You're just tired. - Nothing I do works.

Eh? Let's get you home, come on.

Why are we going up here?

- It's where you live. - I don't wanna go home.

- I don't wanna 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.

BRANWELL: 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.

(SOBS)

- NICHOLLS: Calm down. - BRANWELL: Get off me!

- NICHOLLS: Please keep your voice down. - BRANWELL: Shut up! I hate you!

Don't tell me to calm down in my own house! I will kill you!

- Get your hands off me! - NICHOLLS: Calm down.

Don't tell me to calm down. I don't want you telling me anything.

My house.

Nothing wrong with me.

Look at 'em all looking at me.

You're always looking at me with your stupid, empty faces!

Just please stop looking at me! Stop!

And him. Him.

What do you want, huh? You've had everything.

You've had everything you're getting.

Will you just stand there staring at me all the time?

Come on.

I hate you!

(SOBS)

JOHN: Come on upstairs, have a lie-down.

Have a few knock-out drops, eh?

Eh?

- (GROANS) - Eh?

I feel sick.

Come on. Up we go.

BRANWELL: You heard him. Up. Help me up.

BRANWELL: I can do it.

(MUTTERS)

- Sorry. - Sorry.

CHARLOTTE: 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 has become intolerable.

To Papa he allows rest neither day nor night

and he is continually screwing money out of him,

sometimes threatening that he will kill himself if it's withheld from him.

BRANWELL: I need some money.

MR BRONTE: You need to get a situation. You need to pull yourself together.

- Morning, Miss Bronte. - Thank you.

BRANWELL: Are you stupid as well as blind? There's nothing out there!

Not for someone who's fit for nothing like me...

CHARLOTTE: 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.

BRANWELL: Tell me where it is!

MR BRONTE: There is no more money, Branwell, not for you.

I beg you to recognise that 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... Are they still fighting?

Are you going to be alright 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...

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, is it?

Otherwise I would.

Course you would.

- It's nothing. - Did he just hit you?

Don't make a fuss.

I am still aiming to get my story finished 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. - Right?

Yep. Straight.

Straight. Straight down.

Emily. Good luck.

And you.

- Keep him wrapped up, see? - MR BRONTE: Are 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. - Right you are.

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

DRIVER: Walk on.

Branwell doesn't know where the gun is, does he?

Not any more.

Is he still i' bed?

Daft question.

You give him no money, whatever sob stories he comes up with.

Alright?

He won't hit you.

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

CHARLOTTE: 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.

(GROANS)

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.

(KNOCKING)

(BELL RINGS)

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.

(THUNDER)

CHARLOTTE: There was no possibility...

of taking a walk that day.

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

Like what?

Awoman 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?

BRANWELL: 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

lts 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,

lts bosom suffers not one pang of woe,

Though weeds and worms its cherished beauty hide,

It feels not wounded vanity or pride.

Where's you 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. - Here, let's get him inside.

Branwell, eh?

Come on, son, sit up. There, eh?

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, or what's happening here.

- Where's he been? - ANNE: 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's always imagined he was.

Or where John knew damn well he was.

Have you talked to him, about abstention?

Um, he's asleep.

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

Yeah. Well...

Anne.

Shh.

Anne.

I should have done more at Thorp Green.

I should have stopped him. I should have told someone. I should have...

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.

(DISTANT LAUGHTER)

(LAUGHTER CONTINUES)

(LAUGHTER CONTINUES)

You alright, lad?

Lydia.

Wake up. Wake up.

There's a fire.

- I think I've put it out. - MR BRONTE: Branwell. 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?

DOCTOR: With care, no.

- But you do need to keep an eye on him. - Yeah.

DOCTOR: He's lucky.

You could've been sending for the undertaker this morning, not me.

I think rather than come back in here,

he should stay in my bedroom with me, hm?

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... Do you want to hear it?

Yes.

It starts... It's, um...

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.

O God within my breast,

O 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 Thine 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.

- MR BRONTE: Who? - POSTMAN: Currer Bell.

MR BRONTE: There's no one of that name here.

POSTMAN: No, I know that, Mr Bronte, only it's addressed to here, so I...

MR BRONTE: That's a mystery.

There's no one of that name in the entire parish as far as I'm aware.

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

MR BRONTE: No, no, no visitors, not at the moment.

POSTMAN: Fair enough. I'll take it back to t' sorting office then.

(FRONT DOOR CLOSES)

(FOOTSTEPS)

(STUDY DOOR CLOSES)

- Oh, 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, Papa, he forgets.

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

Um, he was here, but... 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? - Good.

Well, that saves me filling in a docket back at t' sorting office.

I'm much obliged, and so will he be.

How's your brother? Is he?

Oh, he...

He's, um...

- Till tomorrow, then, Miss Bronte. - Bye. Bye-bye.

- Where's Emily? - Kitchen. Do 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.

- What about The Professor? - No.

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

So 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 pounds

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.

- Fifty pounds. - ANNE: 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.

(CHURCH BELL RINGS)

(KNOCKING AT DOOR)

- Yes? - I'd like to speak to Mr Bronte.

- The Reverend Bronte? - Mr Patrick Bronte.

TABBY: What shall I say it's to do with?

- MAN: Is he in? - TABBY: 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.

- (KNOCKS) - MR BRONTE: Yes?

There's a man at the door, Mr Bronte. Says he's here about an unpaid debt.

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 pounds, ten shillings and sixpence

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

and now outstanding for a total of eight months.

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

- Branwell. - Shift, shift, shift.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not so fast, little fella.

Steady, now. You don't want me to hurt you.

And you don't wanna 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?

MAN: I've got him, Mr Riley!

Emily, get him off me! I can't breathe.

- Stop wriggling. Stop struggling. - Get him off me!

I haven't done anything wrong! You've got the wrong man. Get off me!

What were you legging it for, then, you little twat?

- Get your hands off me! - BAILIFF: Are you Patrick Bronte?

MAN: 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 alright with you, 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 alright.

CHARLOTTE: Gentlemen, I have received your communication of the fifth 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.

BRANWELL: I keep telling you, you keep being told,

one day one of us is not gonna 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!

MR BRONTE: 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?

MR BRONTE: Huh?

- Papa? - Huh?

Have you got a moment?

MR BRONTE: Yeah, quickly.

I've...

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

- A book and... - Well, well.

- Would you like to read it? - No, I can't. I don't have time.

And, you know, 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... 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...

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...

(LAUGHS)

Why have you kept it such a secret?

To protect ourselves.

We've been accused of vulgarity and coarseness.

I've 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.

Well...

I'm 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 that which has also written Jane Eyre."

Jane Eyre.

- 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's 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 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.

- ANNE: They think we're three men. - We'd like to keep it that way.

We just wanted you to know.

(SIGHS)

Little Helen Burns, hm?

That's your little sister, Maria.

Maria was our big sister.

Yeah. Of course she was.

Of course she was.

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

And little Elizabeth.

And your mother.

I...

I am very proud of you.

I always have been.

(CHURCH BELLS RING)

BRANWELL: Sunday.

Dear John.

I shall feel very much obliged to you

if you can contrive to get me five pence 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 five pence out of a shilling given me then.

Yours, PBB.

(COUGHS)

Anne.

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 have, 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 by Currer Bell.

Well, it's obviously a misunderstanding.

No. Will you please see that this man is a con man, a rogue?

How... 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 sort 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 deceitful attempt to cash in on the success of Jane Eyre.

Sorry.

- EMILY: It isn't. - CHARLOTTE: It is.

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

of assuming that 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 claim... 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 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.

Well, 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,

and if you won't come with us, then... 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?

(TRAIN WHISTLE BLOWS)

Charlotte.

Jane Eyre.

Look.

Could 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.

Yeah, yes.

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

Can I tell him what it's about?

Just... Just that it's a matter of importance.

I'll... 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

and, 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... 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... I'm sorry.

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

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. - Bronte. Sorry.

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 on 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?

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

Uh, 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... He was the one that... 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.

Somebody really needs to do something about this Mr Newby, though, Mr Smith.

Absolutely, indeed. It will... 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?

(DOG BARKS IN THE DISTANCE)

(BRANWELL COUGHS)

I...

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

(COUGHS)

- Are you sure? - You go sleep in their bed.

- Branwell. - (COUGHS)

I'm gonna be sick.

(VOMITS)

You're back. That was quick. All the way to London.

How are 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.

And we made it clear that 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.

CHARLOTTE: 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.

MAN: Everyone for Keighley.

Ellen.

Charlotte.

Emily.

- Anne. - Miss Nussey.

- Which one's your box? Is it this one? - Yes, just 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.

CHARLOTTE: 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 started writing to Anne about six months after their father died.

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

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, nonstop yack, yack, yack.

Emily popped her head in, purely to satisfy her own curiosity, of course,

and then after approximately four seconds withdrew.

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? That's extraordinary.

It's three suns.

Well...

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.

(SOBS)

YOUNG CHARLOTTE: Tis a shame you're embarked on this course

of myopic self-destruction!

YOUNG BRANWELL: I despise everything you stand for.

Revolution is in the air, and only a fool like you, sir, would ignore it.

(WOMAN SPEAKS INDISTINCTLY)

This is the famous dining room table at which the sisters used to sit and write.

Subtitles: BTI Studios

English SDH UK