My first day at the Parsonage as parlour maid and I was ordered to clear out the fire grate in the empty dining room. A well-thumbed notebook, feather quill and inkwell lay on the large oak table, cherished writing tools of my three mistresses.
Metal-rimmed spectacles, a small leather-bound journal, and a pair of silk dove-grey gloves that I could only ever have dream of wearing, stood to one side.
Savouring the gloves’ silken luxury I tried to slide them over my raw, cracked fingers. The dream faded away—Charlotte Brontë’s hands were infinitely more petite than mine.
Metal-rimmed spectacles, a small leather-bound journal, and a pair of silk dove-grey gloves that I could only ever have dream of wearing, stood to one side.
Savouring the gloves’ silken luxury I tried to slide them over my raw, cracked fingers. The dream faded away—Charlotte Brontë’s hands were infinitely more petite than mine.
