Sharon Wright’s Mother of the Brontës is a book as sensitive as it is thorough.
It is, in truth, a love story, and, as with so many true love stories, the end is desperately sad. In arriving at this point, though, Sharon weaves a most engaging tale, drawing on Maria’s wonderful letters. I found myself laughing at them, as I read about half forgotten feelings in romance conducted by letter. She paints a lively picture of 18th century Penzance for the well to do. Her images of early 19th century travel are as vivid, as they are uncomfortable. Her Yorkshire is cold and grey, with the occasional break in the cloud to reveal Maria's wonderful social grace.
Having read it, I can much better understand Charlotte, scarred as she was by witnessing so much pain and sadness at such a young age. I can also sympathise more with Patrick. It is a ‘must’ for Bronte fans.