“Yes, it stays so closely behind us.”
Unease crept over me. I peered backwards out the window and saw an enclosed black coach drawn by a black horses, and the figure of a driver seated upon the box. A fearful notion constricted my heart: Could someone be following me? Was it the same man who had followed Isabel White?
I hastily recoiled from the window. Mr. Smith said to me, “You are shivering. Are you cold? Do you want the carriage blanket?”
“No, thank you, I am quite comfortable,” I said, deciding that my imagination had gotten the best of me.
We entered Covent Garden and drove past elegant stucco row houses. Men clustered outside the song and supper rooms or escorted ladies along the streets. Although July was the end of the London season, the theatre district was jammed with carriages. Scrutinizing them, I was relieved that the strange black coach seemed to have gone. Traffic converged upon the glittering Royal Opera House.
When my party disembarked, Mr. Smith offered me his arm. His somber, direct gaze lent the polite gesture an intimacy that sped my pulse. I floated into the theatre with him, scarcely aware of Anne at his other side or the Misses Smith behind us. The foyer was filled with men in formal dress and women who wore gowns of brilliant hues, displaying naked shoulders and bejeweled bosoms. They cast critical glances at my plain country garments. Wellbred laughter pealed. My head still throbbed, and my stomach was queasy, but giddy anticipation masked my discomfort. I involuntarily clutched George Smith’s arm, and he turned to me.
“You know, I am not accustomed to this sort of thing,” I stammered.
He laughed as if we shared a joke. I savored our march up the crimson-carpeted staircase. Mr. Smith greeted acquaintances and introduced me as “My dear friend Miss Brown.” He smiled at me as if our secret joined us in a daring conspiracy. I began to think he liked me, I blush to confess.
Erelong we were seated in a box in the first tier. Five more tiers—decorated with gold flowers, separated by gold columns, and filled with people—rose to a domed ceiling. An enormous crystal chandelier radiated sparkling gaslight. Ladies’ fans fluttered in the heat, amidst a roar of conversation. The box afforded me a welcome measure of privacy, yet I had the prickling sensation of watchful gazes focused on me.
“The opera is The Barber of Seville,” said Mr. Smith, at my side.
I noticed a man standing some fifty feet away, near the stalls in front of the stage. He was looking straight at me. My poor eyesight could barely discern that he had dark hair and wore dark clothing, and I perceived an air of menace about him. Then he abruptly turned away.
“Anne,” I whispered, nudging my sister, “do you see that man?”
“Which one?” Anne sounded puzzled.
Alas, our view was at that moment obscured by other persons, and by the time they had passed, he was gone. “Never mind.” I thought of the black coach: Had it brought that man here to watch me? Was he connected with Isabel White’s murder? Anxiously I searched the audience for him. He seemed a disembodied, threatening presence spread throughout the crowd. People peered through opera glasses, and whenever I saw them pointed my way, I cringed.
The lights dimmed, and a hush descended upon the audience. The orchestra played the overture, and the stage curtain lifted, revealing a medieval street scene. An actor dressed in a cape and wide-brimmed hat strode onto the stage. A band of musicians assembled, and he sang a serenade. It was very grand, but because the opera was performed in Italian, I didn’t understand a word. My sense of ominous, hidden watchers burgeoned. The warm air of the theatre was tainted with gas fumes that worsened my headache. As the drama unfolded, a female singer performed an aria; her high, piercing notes reminded me of Isabel White’s screams. I swallowed an eruption of nausea.
“Please excuse me,” I whispered to George Smith. I dreaded leaving the safety of the box alone, yet that seemed preferable to vomiting in front of him.
I clambered from my seat and stumbled out the door of the box. The long corridor was vacant. As I hurried along it, I heard stealthy footsteps following me. Too afraid to look back, I walked faster. Vivacious music emanated from inside the theatre. The footsteps quickened; they echoed the pounding of my heart. A stairwell appeared, and I ran down iron stairs. I heard the metallic racket of my pursuer descending after me. Desperate, gasping for breath, and direly ill, I burst through a doorway, into another corridor.
A door flew open right in front of me, releasing loud, uproarious singing. A group of ladies poured from their box. I followed them down the grand staircase, grateful for their unwitting protection. Outside I relieved my illness at last. My pursuer had disappeared.
When I returned to my box, I met George Smith outside its door. “I was looking for you,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I am, thank you,” I said. We resumed our seats, but the opera was lost on me. I could neither forget my frightening experience nor cease to ponder its meaning.
It was past one o’clock of Sunday morning when Anne and I returned to the Chapter Coffee House. The inn was silent; Paternoster Row slumbered. As we trudged up the stairs to our room, I told Anne what had happened at the opera.
“Dear Charlotte, are you sure that someone was chasing you?” Anne said skeptically.
“Quite sure,” I said.
“But even if it was the man who killed Isabel White, what could he want with you?”
“Perhaps he believes I can identify him to the police, and he wishes to stop me.”
“But you didn’t obtain a good look at his face.”
“He cannot know that,” I said.
“Why didn’t you mention the incident to Mr. Smith? There was ample time during the interval, when he could have asked someone to look for the man who chased you.”
I let out a sigh. “I was afraid he wouldn’t believe me.” I could tell from her expression that Anne didn’t believe me, either. “But it was not just my imagination. There was someone chasing me.”
Outside our room stood a table that held candles. I lit one and opened the door. Cool air rushed outward; the candle flame wavered. Entering the room, Anne and I both exclaimed in shock. Our trunk lay open, our belongings strewn about, and the dresser drawers were open. The covers had been flung off the bed, and the mattress dragged off the frame. Broken glass littered the floor under the window, where a jagged hole gaped. The curtains stirred in the breeze.
7
SOMETIMES A DOOR TO THE FUTURE SEEMS TO OPEN, AND BEYOND THIS portal you can see a radiant blue sky, gardens blooming with flowers, and glorious sunshine. But when you draw nearer, the door is discovered to be an impenetrable wall with a bright, false vista painted upon it by your own folly. That is what happened to me the day after the opera.
Sunday afternoon lay like a golden mantle upon London. The Thames sparkled beneath a sky miraculously cleared by a freshening breeze; the city’s spires, domes, and towers glittered. Church bells tolled across the rooftops of Bayswater, a respectable suburb. Its terraced Regency-era houses basked in the sunshine, their white stucco façades and black wrought-iron fences gleaming. Children rolled hoops, and nurses wheeled perambulators under leafy trees in the square near Westbourne Place, where George Smith resided.
He and I sat in his dining room with Anne, his mother, and his sisters. The house was splendid, with Turkey carpets, polished mahogany furniture, white table linens, and fine crystal, silver, and china. Flowers masked the odor of cesspits that permeates even the best homes of London. Yet Anne and I were so bashful that we could only pick at our portions of roasted joint. Neither of us contributed much to the conversation until I described my experience at the opera and what we had found upon returning to the Chapter Coffee House.
The company expressed shock and sympathy. George Smith said, “You didn’t spend the night in your room after it was ransacked, I hope?”
“No,” I said. “The proprietor of the inn was kind enough to give us other accommodations.”
“Do I correc
tly understand that you believe the two incidents and the murder may be related?”
“The proprietor said a common thief must have climbed onto the roof and broken into our room. But I doubt that a murder, a chase in the theatre, and a burglary all on the same day of my life are mere coincidence.”
“Was anything taken?” inquired Mrs. Smith. She was a handsome, portly woman with rich brunette hair. She had not been told the true connection between her son and his guests, and she eyed me with curiosity.
“No, madam,” Anne murmured.
George Smith frowned, one hand clasping his chin while the other toyed with his glass. “Whether or not these experiences are connected and someone wishes you harm, I do not like this disturbance to your peace of mind.”
Gratified by his concern, I expected him to reiterate his invitation for Anne and me to stay with him. Instead he said, “Perhaps you should return home immediately.” His solicitude seemed as genuine as ever; yet I felt dismay at the suggestion that he wished me to leave.
“Last night you indicated that you would speak to the commissioner of police about investigating Isabel White’s murder,” I said. “Should I not remain available in case I am needed?”
“I shall go to the commissioner as I promised,” said George Smith, “but should it be necessary for the police to communicate with you, a letter will surely suffice.”
Mrs. Smith seconded this opinion; Anne nodded. I beheld my publisher with increasing perplexity. Yesterday he had seemed an ally in my quest for the truth about Isabel White; but now he appeared eager to dismiss me and handle matters himself. What had changed?
“I am most grateful for your assistance and concern, but I think that Anne and I should stay at least until Tuesday,” I said, spurred to assert my independence.
“As you wish,” George Smith conceded graciously, but I could tell he was displeased.
When dinner ended, the ladies retired to the parlor. The Smith sisters hurried to the piano, taking Anne with them, and Mrs. Smith joined arms with me.
“I welcome this chance for us to become better acquainted,” she said in a friendly fashion. “Come, let us sit by the window, where we can smell the roses in my garden.”
Seated beside Mrs. Smith on a divan, I nervously braced myself for questions about who I was and why I was there. I wouldn’t like to lie, yet I dared not break my pledge to Emily.
The Smith sisters began playing and singing a gay tune for Anne. Mrs. Smith said, “My dear George is often at his business all twenty-four hours of a day.” Her maternal tone was fond. “He works so hard.”
“How admirable,” I said, relieved that I was apparently not to be the subject of the discussion.
“Yet he is the most attentive son and brother anyone could wish,” Mrs. Smith said. “No matter how busy he is, he always makes time for his family.”
I had noticed the affection between my publisher and his family —particularly his mother.
“George and I have always been the closest of companions,” Mrs. Smith said, as a maid served coffee to us. “I believe I know him better than does anyone else.” Her smile was uncannily like her son’s. “And I hope you will excuse a mother’s boasting if I say that I’m tremendously proud of him?”
I nodded, trying to determine where the conversation was leading.
The Smith sisters commenced a new song. Mrs. Smith said, “Even though George is so busy, he must soon embark upon a most important phase of his life.” Her manner turned conspiratorial. “You will understand that I refer to matrimony?”
Wariness stole over me as I sensed something unpleasant coming, although I couldn’t imagine what.
“The choice of a mate is difficult for my George. Wherever he goes, the young ladies flock around him.” Mrs. Smith’s hands lifted and fell in a gesture of mock helplessness. “Ah, but you understand his appeal for the fair sex—do you not?”
Her smile persisted, but her eyes had turned hard as flints: She had noticed my admiration for her son, and her disapproval was evident. I felt mortified that I had been so transparent. I sat speechless.
Mrs. Smith laughed, and the sound had an undertone of scorn. “But I have no doubt that my dear George will make the right marriage when the time comes. His wife should be his equal in youth, beauty, charm, and fortune. After all, like deserves like, wouldn’t you agree?”
Nodding automatically, I experienced the further embarrassment of realizing that Mrs. Smith, who didn’t understand the relationship between George and myself, assumed that I wished to engage him as a suitor. She was warning me off because I was too old, too plain, too awkward, and too poor for her son! Although I had never presumed to dream of marrying him, I burned with humiliation. How I wished I could tell her that the good fortune of Smith, Elder & Company owed much to a famous book, of which I was the author! Instead, I lifted my cup and swallowed coffee that tasted bitter as poison. I could not reveal my secret.
“Mr. Smith has been most attentive to me,” I said instead, desiring his mother to know I had cause to believe he cared for me.
Anger replaced the self-satisfaction on the face of Mrs. Smith; she gave me a mocking smile. “My dear George bestows his kindness upon everyone. Often, people misconstrue his motive as affection when he is merely giving sympathy to those who need it. And sometimes his business requires him to endure people outside his usual circle.”
My heart contracted as if under the crushing pressure of a giant fist. The scent of roses turned sickening. The sad truth was now clear—George Smith’s attentions towards me stemmed from his interest in me as Currer Bell, not as Charlotte Brontë. At last I understood why he was so eager for me to leave London: He wanted Currer Bell safe from harm so that she could write more books for Smith, Elder & Company.
Mrs. Smith regarded me with an air of smug triumph. “Surely you understand me when I say that my dear George will neither disappoint his mother nor jeopardize his own prospects when he marries?”
When George Smith entered the parlor, I dared not even look his way.
The next morning Anne and I called on Thomas Cautley Newby, the publisher whose fraud had brought us to town. After an unpleasant talk during which we chastised him and he insisted that the problem was but a misunderstanding, I took Anne to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The firmament arched blue and cloudless above us as we walked by the monument to Admiral Horatio Nelson. The square impressed me as an apt symbol of England’s military power. I bethought myself a citizen of the great kingdom that had defeated Napoleon and ruled the seas unrivaled ever since, commanding an empire that extended across India, Australia, New Zealand, and Africa. While insurrections had shaken Europe time and again during our century, Britain had so far held firm—the army had quelled the Chartist demonstrations that had taken place in London this spring. Now vendors sold trinkets to sightseers streaming in and out of the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields; pigeons fluttered, chasing breadcrumbs tossed by children. All was tranquil.
Anne and I joined a throng heading into the gallery, whose massive Grecian façade dominated the square. The viewing of fine paintings has always given me great pleasure, and the gallery’s cool, echoing chambers contained works by my favorite artists; yet they could neither distract me from my shame over George Smith nor soothe the pain of hope denied yet again.
“Dear Charlotte, you seem unhappy,” Anne said as we strolled the gallery. “Is it Isabel White’s death that troubles you?”
“It is.” I would rather have died than admit how I had deluded myself about Mr. Smith, and Isabel White did still weigh heavily upon my mind. “I doubt that I can depend on Mr. Smith to help determine who killed Isabel. I fear that I can do nothing about the murder.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best.” Anne added, “I shall be glad to be home. There, no one will chase you or invade our rooms.”
The prospect of leaving London the next day depressed me all the more. Absently wandering the galleries, I lost Anne in the crowd and walke
d into a room of Italian paintings. In the deserted, shadowy chamber, medieval dukes, noblewomen, and Madonnas gazed down at me from their golden frames. Distant sounds echoed eerily like whispers from the past. A man appeared before me so suddenly that he seemed to have materialized from thin air.
“Miss Brontë?” he said.
The unexpected sound of my name halted me. Startled, I focused on the man’s black frock coat at my eye level. My gaze moved upward to the white collar and white cravat that identified him as a clergyman, then alit on his face. He had keen, intense features and an olive complexion shaded by a cleanshaven beard. Wavy black hair tumbled above grey eyes of striking clarity and brilliance. Staring into these, I experienced a peculiar, electrifying sense of recognition; yet the man was a stranger.
“Please excuse my accosting you in this rude manner,” he said. Fleeting confusion clouded his face, as if he noticed my reaction to him—or felt the same shock? “My name is Gilbert White. I’m the brother of Isabel White—I believe you’ve met her.”
“Isabel’s brother?” I felt dismay as I wondered whether the clergyman knew of his sister’s death, for I did not wish to have to break such news. Noticing his bleak, strained expression, however, I realized that he must know, and I felt a rush of sympathy.
“Please let me explain,” he said as a flock of chattering patrons streamed into the gallery. “I’m the vicar of a parish outside Canterbury.” His voice was quiet but resonant, with the same North Country accent as Isabel; he held a black hat in hands that were well shaped and clean. “Isabel and I had arranged to meet in London for a holiday together, but when I went to our rendezvous place yesterday, she never came. I didn’t know what else to do except go to the police. They told me Isabel had been killed.”
Gilbert White drew deep breaths; looking away from me, he blinked rapidly.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” I said, moved by his grief and wishing I had more to offer than condolences. As a parson’s daughter, I regularly have occasion to comfort the bereaved, but I always feel my helplessness.
The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 6