The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “I do not make this decision lightly,” Lock said. Indeed, he had agonized over what to do. But the chain of events that had begun with one small mistake brought his frantic search for alternatives to a single unavoidable conclusion.

  “However, my advancing age and poor health leave me no choice but to retire.” Another lie, that: he was only fifty, and in enviable health. “Therefore, I appoint my brother Henry as head of the firm.” Lock gestured, and the young man stepped forward. He was twenty-nine years old, pale, handsome, and nervous.

  “I ask you to work as loyally for Henry as you have for me,” Lock told the workers, although he had no right to speak of loyalty after breaking all its bonds himself. “As a farewell token from me, you shall each receive an extra day’s pay.”

  He hurried out of the courtyard, followed by the workers’ murmurs of “Thank you, sir,” and “God bless you.” He strode through the gun quarter, past the workshops and public houses, to his home in the suburb of Edgbaston. Here lived Birmingham’s important, wealthy citizens. The air was fresh, the smoke from the foundries a distant black smudge on the horizon, and the Birmingham Roar a muted echo. Birds sang in the trees that shaded the wide, sunny streets; mansions graced expansive lawns. The Lock residence was an elegant stone Italianate house. When Lock entered, his wife greeted him.

  “You’re home early,” said she. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all.” Lock regarded her, blonde and rosy and innocent. Guilt and despair tainted his love for her. His betrayal of her was as grievous as his betrayal of his father and country. He said, “There’s just something I need to do.”

  His two young sons raced into the hall, shouting and laughing. When they saw Lock, they halted, fell quiet, and stared at him. Lock mounted the stairs, consoling himself with the thought that his sons’ heritage and livelihood would remain intact, and they would never learn the worst about him. He went into his study and locked the door.

  Cabinets lining the walls displayed firearms produced by Lock Gunworks. He removed a pistol. The sinner in him directed his trembling hands to place powder and ball inside its chamber; he welcomed punishment, craved release from suffering. But the vestiges of Joseph Lock, pillar of the church and community, resisted compounding his previous sins. His breath rasped; nausea roiled his stomach as he cocked the pistol. He deplored the agony and shame awaiting his family.

  Did he perceive the true nature of the villain responsible for all he suffered? Perhaps he thought about her, and the terrible heat of longing again enflamed him. He sat clutching the gun, torn by warring impulses, until his sinful, guilt-ridden self persuaded him that there was no other escape from the hell that he’d made of his life, and certain disaster lay ahead if he did not act. By yielding to temptation and cowardice, he had abetted forces powerful enough to ravage the whole kingdom, and this offered the only possible means by which to stop them. “God have mercy on my soul,” he whispered, putting the pistol to his temple. He pulled the trigger.

  The echo of that fatal shot quickly dissipated, but the inaudible reverberations traveled far beyond Birmingham, across time, and soon reached me.

  3

  DURING MY LIFETIME A MIRACLE HAS TRANSFORMED ENGLAND. Iron roads have spread fast and far, connecting every part of the kingdom. We now live in an age of steam engines and speed, and fortunes have been gained and lost on railway speculation. The rapid tide of progress merits awe, but on the evening when Anne and I set out for London, the miracle of train travel became a force hastening us towards doom.

  That morning, Anne and I had sent our trunk to Keighley Station by wagon. Anne refused to leave without bidding Emily farewell, and Emily did not return from the moors—perhaps she hoped her absence would prevent our departure. Finally, after tea, I propelled a reluctant Anne out of the house. While we walked the four miles to Keighley, a thunderstorm drenched us, and I began to harbor serious doubts about our journey. Despite my earlier enthusiasm for the journey, and despite my assurances to Papa, I was far from confident about my ability to manage in the dazzling metropolis of London.

  From Keighley we rode a local train to Leeds. It was dark by the time we arrived. Soldiers patrolled the platform—Leeds had been the site of recent Chartist demonstrations, and the threat of violence persisted. Soon Anne and I were boarding a first-class carriage for our nightlong journey. The carriage resembled an elongated stage-coach and contained three separate compartments. Anne and I occupied the center coach compartment, which had two upholstered seats facing one another, and a window on each side.

  “Charlotte?” Anne said tentatively. “Where shall we stay in London?” This was the first expression of interest she had shown in the trip, as if she had only just accepted the reality of it.

  “We’ll go to the inn where Emily and I lodged with Papa on our way to school in Belgium.” That trip had occurred more than six years ago, and I hoped the inn was still existent, because I knew nowhere else to go. Nausea born of apprehension churned my stomach.

  “Do you think Mr. Smith will receive us?” Anne said.

  “I daresay he will,” I said, “if only out of curiosity.” Surely Mr. Smith was as eager as the rest of the public to know the identity of Currer Bell.

  “What shall we say to him?”

  “We shall simply introduce ourselves and explain why we came.” As my nausea worsened, I saw Anne’s chin quiver with anxiety, and I hastened to reassure her. “The whole business should take but a moment, and we’ll then be free to see the sights.” I felt a duty to make Anne’s first trip to the city a pleasant one. “Would you enjoy that?”

  “I would.” Anne smiled. “Dear Charlotte, you are so brave and capable.”

  The engine roared and the departure bell rang. Suddenly the coach door opened, and a woman stepped inside. She set a large bag on the floor. Before seating herself opposite Anne and me, she gave us a polite bow. I returned the bow; then a closer look at her arrested my attention.

  She was tall and slender, with pale gold hair and a face so pure of line and complexion that it seemed modeled from rosy alabaster by a great artist. Dark lashes shaded eyes of deep, clear aquamarine. Her mouth was full yet sensitive, the lips a natural pink. Although she wasn’t young—indeed, she appeared near my own age—her features constituted a striking beauty. A troubled air shadowed her aspect. She glanced out the windows, as if looking for someone.

  The whistle sounded, and the engine chugged; the train moved forward with a laborious turning of wheels, through smoke and steam. The woman gave a sigh of relief. She and Anne soon fell asleep, despite the train’s jolting, clamorous progress through the moonlit countryside. I cast furtive, envious glances at the stranger. My own plain, puny appearance has been a lifelong source of grief to me. As a young girl I wrote stories featuring heroines variously named Mary Percy, Zenobia Ellrington, or Augusta Romana di Segovia, all beautiful and much desired by their heroes; I created in fantasy what reality had denied me. As I now beheld all my heroines embodied in the stranger seated opposite me, awe gave way to curiosity.

  Who was she? Her clothes appeared of decent quality but were neither new nor expensive. Her straw bonnet was unadorned; the grey pelisse hid whatever she wore beneath it. Was she married or a spinster? A gentlewoman of modest origins, or royalty in disguise? More speculation occupied me for many miles. On what business did she travel alone?

  A sudden moan issued from the woman. Her eyelids fluttered; her head tossed from side to side, and she cried, “No! No!” Bolting to her feet, she lurched against me.

  “Madam!” I exclaimed in alarm. “What is it?”

  The woman’s arms flailed; her eyes were blank with terror. I recoiled backwards in panic. Anne stirred but slept on. Was the woman having a fit? Trapped in the coach with her, miles from the next station, what should I do?

  “Help, please, help!” the woman shrilled.

  I considered waking Anne, then decided she would be of little use. Rising, I seized the woman by the wrists, p
ressed her into her seat, and sat beside her.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” I urged, “so I may assist you.”

  The woman was trembling, her breath a rapid wheezing. She lunged towards the door.

  “No!” I held tight to the woman to prevent her jumping from the train. “Calm yourself: It was surely just a bad dream that frightened you.”

  “A dream.” The woman’s gaze cleared, and her voice conveyed grateful relief, but her complexion turned ashen in the moonlight. Her hand clutched her chest.

  Quickly I rummaged through my satchel and brought out a vial of sal volatile. The woman inhaled the powerful fumes and coughed; her breathing slowed and deepened, and color returned to her cheeks. Lying back in her seat, she smiled weakly at me.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “You are so kind. I must have disturbed you terribly.” She spoke in a melodious, wellbred voice tinged with a North Country accent. “I do apologize.”

  “There’s no need. I’m glad to be of service,” I said. Conversation with strangers is contrary to my habit—I am usually tongue-tied in their presence—but the incident had fostered a sort of intimacy between the woman and myself. “What could have frightened you so?”

  “I hardly know. Nightmares are so often forgotten upon waking.” The woman’s gaze darted, and I suspected that she, in fact, did recall but preferred not to say. Then, apparently feeling that she owed me some courtesy, she said, “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Isabel White.”

  “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance,” I said. “I am Charlotte Brontë, and that is my sister Anne.”

  Isabel White regarded me with dawning interest. “Your surname is quite unusual. How is it spelled?”

  I told her, adding, “It was originally ‘Brunty,’ but my father modified it when he left Ireland as a young man. He renamed himself for the Duke of Brontë—the title conferred upon Horatio Nelson in recognition of military services. He has been for many years the parson of St. Michael’s Church in Haworth.”

  “Do you and your sister live with him?” Isabel asked, her aquamarine eyes intent on me.

  “Yes. Anne and our sister Emily and our brother Branwell and I all make our home at the parsonage.” I was flattered by Isabel’s attention, as handsome people seldom paid me any. “Do you live in Yorkshire?”

  Isabel’s expression turned opaque, like a window when frost forms upon it. “Once I did, but no more.”

  The terse reply stung me, and I blushed because my innocent question had apparently offended Isabel. I was ready to excuse myself and return to my seat, when Isabel seemed to regret snubbing me and explained, “I have been working as a governess.”

  Though gratified to learn her social position, I was disappointed that she was but a humble governess. Now the lovely Isabel seemed an object of pity. There were advantages in being my plain self: Currer Bell had happily quit her former occupation. “I, too, have been a governess. How does the profession suit you?”

  “I consider it less a matter of suitability than of necessity,” Isabel said. “When circumstances require, a woman must support herself, regardless of her feelings about her position.”

  “I quite agree,” I said. “I’ve always endeavored to earn my own livelihood.”

  “There are but few jobs open to women,” Isabel said. Her manner seemed oddly defensive, and I wondered why she should need to justify herself to a comrade. “I should be thankful that I was given an education that won me pleasant, lucrative employment.”

  “As should I be,” I said, further confused by Isabel’s tone of bitter sarcasm. She might be making a joke about the hard labor that governesses performed for low wages; yet I sensed in her words a hidden meaning. I wondered why such a beauty had not acquired a husband who would have spared her the necessity of employment.

  I myself had received no fewer than two marriage proposals, from eminently suitable clergymen. I had refused both, since I harbored no tender feelings for my suitors, nor they for me. They were merely eager to acquire wives to share their work, and I was unwilling to accept a man I could not love. I have become well convinced that I shall never marry at all—reason tells me so, although stubborn hope persists against all odds.

  “Governessing might not have been so bad if I had any aptitude for disciplining children.” Recalling my time with the Sidgwick family of Lothersdale, I shook my head ruefully. “I hope I never again meet such unmanageable cubs as those of my first employer. The eldest, a girl of seven, threw tantrums whenever I asked her to recite her lessons. Each day was a battle of wills, and I often the loser.”

  A pained, understanding smile curved Isabel’s lips. “Children can be difficult.”

  “At my last post at Upperwood House in Rawdon,” I said, “the little boy passed his water into my workbag.”

  We laughed, and our shared mirth warmed me. “Even worse than the children were the mistresses of the houses,” I said. “They treated me as an inferior, and it was a sore trial to live as their dependent, at their command. It was no use complaining to them about their children’s misbehavior. They scolded me for failing to maintain order and allowed the children to do as they liked. I shudder to think what ill-mannered adults those children have surely become.”

  Isabel nodded; a faraway look unfocused her eyes. “We are indeed products of our early training,” she murmured.

  Shyness barred me from asking what she meant by this cryptic comment. She baffled and fascinated me increasingly. “I often found the masters of the houses preferable to the mistresses,” I said in an effort to keep the talk flowing. “Their presence caused the children to behave better. They made no demands on me; indeed, they made my lot easier.”

  “If that is the case, then you have been fortunate, Miss Brontë.” Isabel gave me a queer smile in which self-pity blended with condescension.

  Not knowing how to respond to this, I said, “Where are you currently employed?”

  Isabel hesitated. “At the home of Mr. Joseph Lock. He is a gun maker in Birmingham.”

  “Is Mr. Lock a kind master?” I inquired politely.

  “He is a good man,” Isabel said, gazing out the window, “but kindness played little role in our association.” A frown shadowed her profile as she mused in silence for a moment. Then she said in an almost inaudible voice, “I was brought up to believe that we should do unto others as we would have others do unto us, but I—I have broken that rule, as well as many others. Is it futile to hope that I may escape punishment?”

  This sounded to me like a confession, but of what sins? I guessed that Isabel’s troubles involved Mr. Lock, and I pondered what might happen between a man and a beautiful woman living in his house. I blushed again, ashamed of entertaining thoughts about subjects that were none of my business; yet my curiosity persisted.

  “Are you going to Birmingham, then?” I asked, because that city lay on our route.

  “No!” A shudder accompanied Isabel’s violent negative. Then she turned to me and said, “I am on leave from my post and traveling to London.” The frosty look had returned to her eyes. “Where do you and your sister go, Miss Brontë?” she said, abruptly steering the conversation away from herself.

  “We are also traveling to London.” I fervently hoped Isabel wouldn’t ask why.

  Isabel only asked, “And how long do you stay?”

  “A few days,” I said, glad that I need not fabricate a lie to conceal my private purpose.

  “Will you be taking up employment soon?” Again, Isabel studied me with close scrutiny, as if genuinely curious.

  Since I couldn’t discuss my current occupation as a writer, lest I give away my identity as Currer Bell, I said, “At present, I’m between positions and living at home.”

  Isabel nodded, and I had the disconcerting sense that she was making note of this information for later reference. After a while, Anne awakened, and I introduced her to Isabel, and the three of us made trifling conversation. Whenever the train stopped at a station, Is
abel cowered in her seat, seeming to avoid the window for fear that someone would see her. Anne and I left the carriage several times, but not she. Still, I doubted that Isabel could pass the whole night without leaving the train, and when we reached Nottingham just before midnight, she accepted my invitation to go into the station.

  The platform was dimly lit by gas lamps; a few passengers and station officials awaited the train. Exiting the coach, Anne and I left our satchels inside, but Isabel lugged her carpetbag with her. This was large, bulky, and patterned with red roses. I wondered what was in the bag, and why Isabel would not let it out of her sight. Did it contain something valuable, perhaps stolen? Was it the law that she feared so?

  As the three of us walked towards the privies, I watched Isabel dart wary glances at the other passengers. Her fright was contagious. I found myself peering across the dark train yard in search of pursuers, and seeing malevolence in the faces of the railway guards. Isabel stuck close by Anne and me as we entered the station’s refreshment room. I bought tea to drink with the bread and cold meat we’d brought from home. I returned to Anne and found Isabel gone.

  “She just turned and fled without a word,” Anne said in bewilderment. “Why, I wonder?”

  I watched the door swing shut. “I don’t know.”

  “There’s something about her that makes me quite uneasy,” Anne said.

  We ate our meal, then hurried back to the train. The window of our coach showed no sign of Isabel, but when I opened the coach door, a cry rang forth. Startled, we beheld Isabel lying curled on her seat, staring up at us.

  “Oh. It’s you.” Relief erased the panic from Isabel’s face.

  “Whom did you think it would be?” I asked.

  Isabel shook her head. “No one.”