The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  A sudden noise interrupted his contemplation of the profits earned from his secret venture: It was the sound of wood splintering under a hard blow. A distant door opened. There was an intruder in the warehouse. Fearon took a pistol from the desk drawer, snuffed the lamp, and tiptoed out of his office.

  A wavering light moved behind the high rows of piled goods. Stealthy footsteps walked the stone floor and echoed in the gloom. Pistol in hand, Fearon stole through the shadows, circling his unseen adversary, determined to protect his property. Suddenly a cord whipped over his head and pressed tight around his neck, choking him. Fearon squealed; as his muscles tensed in shock and panic, he squeezed the trigger. The pistol discharged with a great boom. Fearon dropped the gun and clawed at the cord, which squeezed his throat harder. His attacker gripped him in an iron embrace. His body sagged to the floor. The terror in his expression faded as his features went slack. All was silent.

  Over the corpse stood John Slade.

  He held a lantern above Fearon’s livid, swollen face. He breathed hard and fast, spent by exertion; his unruly dark locks were wet with sweat, his eyes afire. He hastened to the office and noted the chest of gold, then turned to the ledgers piled on the desk. He skimmed pages listing quantities of opium sold in China, and of silks and tea imported to England. Impatient, he yanked open the desk drawers, searching through the letters there. One document read as follows: “I am terminating our business agreement, and you should expect no more merchandise from my firm. Yours sincerely, Joseph Lock.”

  Slade folded the letter into his pocket, read the remaining correspondence, and cursed in frustration, for the name he sought appeared nowhere. Then he heard men’s excited voices outside, and running footsteps: Fearon’s gunshot must have alerted the dock guards. Slade fled soundlessly from the warehouse and vanished into the dark labyrinth of the docks.

  11

  I SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAYS WONDERING AND FRETTING OVER whether I should write to Gilbert White about the package. Each arrival of the post caused me a flurry of expectation that I might receive a letter from him; but time passed, no letter came, and my caution won out.

  Emily observed my discomfort with grim pleasure. The burden of my duty to Isabel pressed upon me, and my previous adventures had left me hungering for more. Then on Thursday, July 20—six days after I had received the package—I heard a carriage rattling up Church Road. I dared to think that Gilbert White had come to call instead of writing me, and I hurried to open the door. Disappointment struck me.

  My dear friend Ellen Nussey glided into the house, smiling. Ellen is plump and fair; her blue summer frock matched her round, light eyes. A straw bonnet covered her fluffy yellow curls. “My dear, the look on your face!” she exclaimed, enfolding me in an embrace as gentle as her voice. She always smells pleasantly of lavender potpourri. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Yes, of course,” I hastened to say. “I’m just surprised.” Ellen lives in Birstall—some twenty miles from Haworth—and never visits without prior arrangement. “You must be weary from your journey. Let me fetch you some nourishment.”

  I laid a light repast upon the parlor table. Pouring tea, I said, “What brings you here?”

  As I passed the bread and butter, I contemplated the differences between us. Ellen is placid, while I am nervous. I am a daughter of a humble clergyman, but Ellen’s father had been a wealthy owner of textile mills which still provided ample livelihood for the Nusseys. While I have worked to earn my keep, Ellen spends her days visiting, waiting on her mother, and fancy sewing. We first met seventeen years ago, at Roe Head School. I thought Ellen a prim, dull-witted busybody, and I did not like her; but over time, a mutual attachment had grown and flourished, and I learned to appreciate her good qualities.

  “I came because of your letter,” Ellen said. “Such dark hints about strange experiences! I felt certain that you were in a bad way and needed my help. I’m glad to find you in a good condition, but has something happened to your family?”

  “They are all fine,” I said, “except for Branwell, who’s no worse than usual.”

  “Then my fears were unfounded.” Clasping a hand to her bosom, Ellen sighed in relief. “But I was astonished to hear you had gone to London. Whatever for?”

  Anxiety gripped me: Ellen didn’t know the secret of Currer, Acton, and Ellis Bell, and I could not explain the trip without giving it away. “Anne and I had business in London.”

  “Oh. I see.” I saw that Ellen was hurt by my evasion. Guilt pricked me, but before I could frame an explanation that would placate her without revealing too much, Ellen said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. It concerns that book everybody has been talking about, Jane Eyre.”

  A feeling of dread coursed through me.

  “I heard a rumor that you are the author,” Ellen continued. “At first I thought it could not possibly be true, because you wouldn’t have published a book without telling me. But when I read Jane Eyre, I recognized Thornfield Manor as Rydings, where my family used to live. The grey house with its battlements, the rookery, and the thorn trees were all in the book, just as you saw them when you visited us. And I could almost hear your voice speaking as I read. Now I must know for certain: Did you write Jane Eyre?”

  Wincing inwardly, I clutched my teacup. Ellen had never been much interested in literature, and I never thought she would read Jane Eyre, let alone recognize anything in it. I had sworn to keep the secret, yet I didn’t want to lie to my faithful friend.

  “Ellen,” I began.

  As eager anticipation brightened her face, I spied Emily standing in the parlor doorway. Emily glowered at me, her meaning clear: She did not wish that Ellen be told, even though Ellen was one of the few people outside the family whom she liked. Then Emily turned and walked away, leaving me to choose between my friend and my sister.

  “I did not write Jane Eyre,” I declared. “If anyone tells you otherwise, you must set them straight.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course I will.” Ellen looked unconvinced, even wounded, by my denial.

  Anxious to atone for my deception, I clasped Ellen’s hand and said, “I’m glad you’re here, and I haven’t even thanked you for coming. Please forgive me, and let me explain about the experiences I mentioned in my letter.” I described Isabel White’s murder and the incidents that followed, sharing with Ellen my belief that the events were somehow related.

  “How awful!” Ellen exclaimed, clutching her throat as if she might faint. “My dear, how did you manage to find so much trouble?”

  “I’m afraid that trouble found me, and it still lurks at my door,” I said.

  As I told her about the package from Isabel White and the inquisitive man in the village, I watched her expression turn aghast. She cried, “Oh, Charlotte, I can’t bear for you to be in danger. You must come home with me this instant.”

  “That won’t help me discover who’s behind the attacks,” I said. “Conveying the package to Isabel’s mother and learning what I can from her represents my only hope of protecting myself and my family. But I cannot travel to Bradford alone under these circumstances, and Emily and Anne refuse to go with me. And Papa’s health is too weak.”

  “How fortunate that I can be of use to you after all!” Ellen said, clapping her hands together. “My dear, I shall accompany you to Bradford.”

  Too late I realized that I should have anticipated this reaction. When Ellen is determined to help, nothing can stop her. “But those men might come after me again. I mustn’t put you in danger.”

  Ellen waved away my protests. “I know you, Charlotte. You’ll have no peace until you’ve done your duty to that poor woman, and if you don’t have someone to accompany you, you’ll make up your mind to go alone, no matter the risks.”

  There was truth in her words, but I could not put Ellen’s safety at risk. “It’s a journey of ten miles. We would have to stay overnight in Bradford. Surely you’re not prepared for the trip, and your mother would worry
if you were gone so long.”

  “Oh, but I am prepared.” Ellen laughed merrily. “My trunk is outside. I came here expecting to stay with you at least a week, and I have Mama’s blessing.” Then dismay cast a shadow upon her countenance. “Unless—Charlotte, are you trying to say that you don’t want my company?”

  “No, of course I do,” I hastened to assure her. As I tried to impress upon Ellen the serious nature of the threat, I could see that she remained hurt by what she saw as rejection, and unconvinced that any harm could befall her. Tears filled her eyes, and she dabbed them with a lacy handkerchief.

  “I understand,” she murmured. “I see that I’m not needed here, and I shall go home at once. Forgive me for bothering you.”

  It became clear that either I had to allow Ellen to accompany me to Bradford, or her feelings would be hurt beyond consolation. Moreover, I recognized that Ellen’s proposal offered a solution to my problems. Should any persons wish to attack me, perhaps they would not if I was accompanied by someone outside my family, whom they wouldn’t want to involve in their business. That Ellen had arrived today seemed almost a divine coincidence that enabled me to honor a murdered woman’s last wish.

  “We’ll leave for Bradford early tomorrow,” I said.

  The town of Bradford is situated in the lower foothills of the Pennines. Its textile mills cluster along the valley like black, cancerous growths; coal mines mar the surrounding landscape. Mean tenements house men, women, and children who toil in the mines and mills from sunrise to sundown. The air resounds with the whine and roar of machinery.

  The train conveyed Ellen and me to this hell on the morning of 21 July 1848. We left our bags at the station; then a hansom cab carried us through narrow streets amidst heavy traffic, past shops whose windows were so begrimed by soot that I couldn’t see inside. Dense smoke laden with cinders stung my eyes and immersed the town in a perpetual dusk.

  Ellen held a perfumed handkerchief over her nose and mouth. “This must be the most unwholesome place in the kingdom,” she said. “I hope we do not take ill.”

  Illness was of secondary concern to me: I had spent the journey in dread of meeting again the two men who had attacked Anne and me. Although today’s train trip had passed without incident, I nonetheless anxiously scanned the hordes of shopkeepers, laborers, businessmen, and servants on the streets.

  The cab left Ellen and me at the entrance to Eastbrook Terrace. Carrying my satchel, which contained Isabel’s package, I beheld a gloomy alley enclosed by two-story attached tenements constructed of dark, dingy brick. The pavement was covered by foul muck that was inches deep. I wondered how Gilbert White could allow his mother to live in such squalor. Surely he could afford better accommodations for his family. Did he shirk his duties as a son? Though disturbed by the thought, I held out hope that I might find him here. Perhaps he was staying with his mother, and had thus been too busy to write to me.

  Boards had been set atop bricks to form bridges spanning the filth. Ellen and I gingerly walked along these, then up a staircase to Number 20. I knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” called a woman’s faint voice from inside.

  The room we entered was dim, its window partially covered with a muslin curtain. On a chair in the corner sat the woman, dressed in a white cap, white apron, and dark frock, her face in shadow.

  “Mrs. White?” I said.

  “Yes, who’s there?” the woman replied in a timid tone, craning her neck.

  “My name is Charlotte Brontë,” I said, “and this is my friend Ellen Nussey.”

  As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw that Mrs. White was perhaps sixty years old, frail of figure. Her face was gaunt, her pale skin lined; yet I discerned in her features the same delicately sculpted bones that Isabel had possessed. She held on her lap a cloth that looked to be a bedsheet. Her fingers plied a needle and thread, hemming the sheet in quick stitches. That she could sew in such poor light puzzled me, until a closer look at her showed filmy blue eyes gazing blankly up at me. Mrs. White was blind.

  “I’m afraid your names are unfamiliar to me.” She spoke in Isabel’s voice, coarsened by age. “Have we met before?”

  “I knew your daughter,” I said, uncomfortably aware that the woman was still in mourning for her child and that I was intruding at a difficult time. “We met on a train to London. She asked me to call on you.”

  “Ah, you’re a friend of Isabel. I’m fair glad to meet you.” Half rising, Mrs. White extended her bony, delicate hand. I shook it, as did Ellen.

  “Please, do sit down,” Mrs. White entreated.

  The room contained a divan, a table, a dresser, a chest, and a cupboard, all set against the walls; a hooked rug covered the floor. Everything was spotlessly clean, despite the foul odors from the street. Ellen and I settled on the divan; I placed my satchel beside me.

  “Are you come to bring word of Isabel?” said Mrs. White. “Have you seen her lately? How is she?”

  Ellen and I exchanged glances of alarm and puzzlement, for it appeared that the woman did not know her daughter was dead.

  Mrs. White’s expectant smile faded; she cocked her head, straining to divine the cause of our silence. “What’s wrong?” she said, suddenly fearful. “Has something happened to Isabel?”

  Alas, I had no choice but to deliver the news which Gilbert White had apparently not, although he had told me he was going to Bradford to see his mother. “I am so sorry,” I faltered, “but your daughter is—Isabel has died.”

  Mrs. White sat frozen for a moment, her countenance blank; then she slowly released her grip on her sewing, which slid off her lap. She whispered, “No!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, wretched at the sight of the shock I’d caused.

  Tears pooled in Mrs. White’s eyes, though she shook her head in repeated denial. “But Isabel came to visit me not three weeks ago. She were in perfect health. How can she be dead?”

  With great reluctance I informed Mrs. White of the murder, omitting the horrific details. A frenzy of weeping besieged the woman. “No! It can’t be!” Her hands groped, as if in a desperate search for her daughter. “Isabel! Isabel!”

  Ellen enfolded Mrs. White in her arms. I was glad Ellen had come, for she provided much better comfort than I could have. At last Mrs. White’s sobs abated. Ellen went to the kitchen to make her a cup of tea, while I stayed by her. She looked shrunken and forlorn, and suddenly older than her sixty years; her eyes were red, and her complexion mottled from her tears.

  “When I was in London, I met your son,” I said. “He knows of Isabel’s death. Has he not been here?”

  “My son? I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve no son.”

  Her evident confusion was nothing to that which I experienced. “But he introduced himself as Isabel’s brother. His name is Gilbert. He was coming here to see you.”

  “There must be some mistake,” Mrs. White said. “Isabel is—or was—my only child.”

  What horror and surprise were mine! Gilbert White—I knew not what else to call him—had lied to me about his name, his past, and why he wished to know the truth about Isabel’s death. He must have arranged a false address at which to receive my correspondence. Had his attentions to me been part of the lie? A dark emptiness opened inside me, then filled with panic. An idea surfaced from the chaos in my mind.

  “Has any man been to visit you since you last saw Isabel?” I asked Mrs. White.

  “Only a clergyman from the benevolent society. I forget his name. A bit odd, it were. While we was talkin’, he tiptoed round the house, openin’ cupboards and movin’ things.”

  My heart began to pound. Perhaps Gilbert White was the stranger who had questioned people about me in Haworth. If he had also entered Mrs. White’s house under false pretenses to search for Isabel’s package, was he now on his way to Haworth to obtain it by whatever means necessary? The thought was horrifying.

  Ellen came into the room, bringing a cup of tea for Mrs.
White. I decided to say nothing of more of Gilbert White, for I did not wish to trouble Mrs. White nor Ellen. I did my best to hide my emotions, while Mrs. White sipped her tea. Presently, she began to speak in a small, sad voice.

  “Isabel was my only comfort after her father died. He worked in the mill until a boiler exploded and killed him. Did Isabel tell you about that?”

  “No,” I said, for it had been Mr. White who’d told me. Whatever his real connection with Isabel, he must have known her well, and she had died violently. He now knew much about me. To what sinister purpose would he put his knowledge?

  “When her father was killed, Isabel was ten.” Mrs. White cradled her teacup in her hands as though craving its warmth. “I got a job running a spinning machine in the factory. Isabel was in school, but I couldn’t earn enough to keep us, so she went to work at the factory, too.”

  My mind pictured a pretty blonde woman and girl laboring in the dirty, noisy mill, then trudging home through the dark, dreary streets of Bradford.

  “I wanted better for Isabel, but there seemed no hope,” Mrs. White continued. “Then one Sunday, some strangers came to our church. A Reverend and Mrs. Grimshaw. They said they ran a charity school in Skipton, and they was looking for poor girls who needed schoolin’. They came here and talked to Isabel alone for a long time. Afterward, they said she was just the kind of girl they wanted, and they took her away in their carriage. I hated to let Isabel go—we both cried—but I knew it was for the best.”

  I imagined a frightened young Isabel, riding off into the unknown, as I had done on my own first journey to the Clergy Daughters’ School.

  “While she was away,” continued Mrs. White, “she wrote to me about all the things she was learnin’ and all the nice people she’d met, and she sounded happy. But when she came home for the summer holiday, she was changed. They had fixed her hair, given her smart new clothes. She talked and acted like a lady. She was a stranger to me.”