The shadow of past worries fell over Mrs. White’s aspect. “Isabel had been such a happy, friendly, talkative child. But all the time we were together again, she never smiled nor said much. When I asked her if somethin’ was wrong, she said no. She wouldn’t talk about school at all. But at night I heard her cryin’ in bed. I was afraid I’d done wrong to send her away, so I asked her if she’d like to stay home, even though there was naught for her here but the mill. She said no, and when her holiday was over, she returned to school.”
A fragment of Isabel’s conversation came back to me: We are indeed products of our early training. If something had happened to Isabel at school, was that at the root of her later troubles?
“The next holiday, she seemed more like herself,” said Mrs. White, “so I stopped worrying. She were just growin’ up, I thought. And later I was glad I had let her stay at the school, because when she was eighteen, the Reverend Grimshaw found her a good post as a governess for some rich folk up in London. By that time, my sight was going, and I couldn’t work at the mill anymore. Isabel sent me money to live on.”
I should be thankful that I was given an education that won me pleasant, lucrative employment, Isabel’s voice echoed in my mind.
“She wrote to me, but she never said much about what she was doin’ or the people she was with. She was always changin’ posts and hardly ever came home. I asked to visit her, but she always had some excuse.” Mrs. White said mournfully, “She didn’t want my company. She was risen in the world and ashamed of her mum.”
But a different explanation occurred to me: Perhaps Isabel had been ashamed of herself, for doing something she hadn’t wanted her mother to know about.
“You mentioned that you saw Isabel recently,” I said to Mrs. White. Three weeks ago would have been just before the murder. I understood why Isabel had been in Yorkshire when we met: She must have gone directly from here to the London train. “How did she behave?”
Mrs. White sighed, and her expression grew all the sadder. “She talked ever so cheerful, but I could tell she was nervous. I felt her fidgetin’ and leanin’ over to look out the window as if she was watchin’ for someone. She started at every little noise. And at night, when she thought I was asleep, I heard her cry, just like when she were a child.”
I asked Mrs. White if she knew what had ailed Isabel.
“She didn’t say. And I didn’t like to ask, because she was ever so secretive.”
Alas, it seemed that I would not learn the reason for Isabel’s death nor the identity of her killer from her mother. But my suspicions inclined ever more strongly towards Mr. White.
“Now I wish I’d made Isabel tell me what was wrong,” said her mother. “Maybe I could have helped her.” Sobs shuddered the frail old woman; her teacup sloshed, and Ellen gently removed it from her hands. “Now she’s taken her troubles to the grave. She’s gone forever, and I wish the Lord had taken me instead, for I can’t bear to live without her!”
The time had come to discharge my duty. “Before Isabel died, she wrote to me and asked me to bring you this package,” I said, and gave it to Mrs. White.
She eagerly accepted the last communication from her child. “Oh, thank you, miss,” she cried. “I’m ever so grateful.” She fumbled to open the package, then begged my assistance.
With great anticipation did I break the seal and remove the contents. There was a book bound in green cloth, and two papers—one a sheet of white stationery, the other a certificate from the Bank of England. Taking up the certificate, I said to Mrs. White, “Isabel sent you a banknote for a thousand pounds.”
Such a vast sum I had never before handled, and my companions’ faces reflected my amazement. Now I knew why Isabel wanted me to deliver the envelope: She’d deemed me less likely to steal than whoever else might have otherwise opened it for her mother.
Mrs. White exclaimed, “A thousand pounds! How generous Isabel always was! She didn’t forget her mum.” The old woman wept for joy. “But my heavens, where did she get so much money?”
I could not help thinking Isabel had come by the money dishonestly, for a governess’s savings could hardly amount to such a fortune. Perhaps she’d been carrying her ill-gotten cash in the carpetbag that she guarded so closely, and exchanged it for the note at a London bank the day she died. She must have sought me out at the Chapter Coffee House because her killer was pursuing her and she had no one else to turn to for help.
“There’s also a letter,” I said. “Would you like me to read it to you?”
“A letter from Isabel! Oh, please do, miss!”
I read aloud:
Dearest Mother,
I’m sorry to say that I must go away. It is best that I not tell you where or why, or communicate with you while I’m gone. I promise to return if I can. In the meantime, I hope Miss Brontë has delivered this package to you and the money will supply your needs until we are reunited. Please take care of yourself and do not worry about me.
Isabel
Mrs. White and Ellen listened in obvious mystification. This message from beyond the grave sent chills through me, yet offered no enlightenment. I asked Mrs. White where Isabel might have meant to go, but she could offer no suggestion. I then turned to the book.
“Isabel also sent you a copy of The Sermons of the Reverend Charles Duckworth,” I said, reading the title.
“But why would she send me a book?” Mrs. White shook her head in bewilderment. “She knows—she knew—I would be unable to read it.”
Leafing through the soiled, musty volume, I scanned the dull ramblings of an ordinary clergyman who had immortalized himself in this tract. Surely, no one would kill to steal it. Then I noticed words filling the inner margins of the book’s pages, penciled in Isabel’s handwriting.
“Mrs. White,” I said, “may I please borrow this book? I promise to return it.”
“Aye, you can keep it if you like,” Mrs. White said. “It’s no use to me.”
12
AFTER ELLEN AND I LEFT MRS. WHITE, WE FETCHED OUR BAGS from the station, then engaged lodgings at a modest inn; we had tea and retired to our room for the evening. I explained to Ellen why I had taken the book from Mrs. White, and we sat on the bed to decipher Isabel’s words. The writing was so tiny that my eyes had a difficult time of it; hence, Ellen read aloud while I copied the passages into my notebook.
With great trepidation do I embark upon recording the significant events of my life, for there is grave danger in hinting at what I have experienced. Furthermore, I am afraid that my narrative will show me to be a despicable sinner. Will I offend readers with a tale so sordid? Will they disbelieve me? These risks I must take, in the hope that writing my history will close a disgraceful chapter of my life. Perhaps they who would condemn me for the things I did will instead understand and pity me. And perhaps my words will reach the attention of someone able to combat an evil that is gaining destructive power even as I write.
My story begins when I met the man who became the master of my soul. I was at the time familiar with the nature of men, yet did not know that men such as He existed. The others had been coarse and ugly, but He was a creature from a different world. Dark was He, yet radiant, and possessed of great strength. From the very first moment, His strange beauty captivated me. His eyes—so fierce, so luminous—penetrated deep inside me. His voice was like velvet and steel, probing the recesses of my mind. Many questions did He ask me, and many secrets did He elicit.
I confessed to Him, as I had never been able to confess to any other soul, how, when I was a child, my father would creep into my bed at night. If I did not keep still Papa would beat me with his fist. He whispered that I was his darling and clamped one hand over my mouth to silence my cries. Oh, the tearing pain! He said that unless I promised not to tell anyone, he would send me to a prison for bad girls because I had tempted him. Even had I not feared his threat, how could I tell anyone of my shame?
When Papa died, my mother grieved, for she had loved him a
nd I had kept my promise. His death impoverished us, and we were forced to go to work. I pretended to mourn him, but I was secretly relieved that he could never hurt me again. At night I dreamt that I was running through the mill, past rows of whirling, screeching spinning machines. They sucked me into their engines, and the mill exploded in a thunderous burst of bricks, metal shards, and boiling water. I would awake in terror. Every day as I worked in the mills I feared that my dream would come true and death would be my punishment for rejoicing that Papa was gone.
I never told anyone of this, other than the man to whom I made reference earlier. From Him I could hide nothing; nor did I want to, for He seemed the one person in the world who knew me and accepted me with all my faults. It was as if, when He coaxed from me the secrets of the horror and suffering I’d kept hidden from the world, I stood naked before Him with every scar on my soul visible. Every piece of myself that I gave Him purchased His favor in some inexplicable way, and I desired His favor above all else. I lived for His visitations, and I began to want Him in a way that I had never before wanted any man. His very presence reduced me to a state of hot, quivering need; His command was my law.
When she read this passage, poor Ellen began to cough and blush; however, she recovered herself and persevered with Isabel’s account.
When He asked me to steal money from my employer, I did. At my next post, I was governess in a household that included a puppy, much beloved by the children. To test my loyalty, He ordered me to kill the dog. I was aghast, for I’d grown fond of it and its young owners. He didn’t say that if I refused, He would abandon me—I could read it in His eyes. My need proved stronger than my conscience. One night I strangled the puppy. The poor creature squirmed and squealed in my hands until it expired. How sick I felt over betraying its trust; how guilty to watch the children grieve after the small corpse was found in the churchyard, where He had instructed me to lay it!
Yet all this faded to insignificance the moment I was reunited with Him. He caressed my cheek, and I thrilled to the touch that I’d longed for. Never had He given any sign that He wanted me, but now I saw desire in His eyes. He slowly undressed me, and the brush of His fingers kindled a fire in me. I wanted to cry out with impatience; I wanted to flee in terror, but His gaze held me still and silent: I could only submit.
How grateful I was that it fell upon Ellen to read aloud, and that I had but to copy! I blushed to think of pretty, demure Isabel White so forthrightly giving voice to these most intimate revelations, but I guiltily admit that I also burned with secret curiosity to hear more. Although she had turned a violent shade of crimson, Ellen steadfastly read on.
I swooned at the warmth of Him. Everywhere His hands touched me, flames leapt under my skin; I shuddered and moaned. He knew secrets of my body which I did not know myself. Willingly did I pleasure Him; eagerly did I open myself to Him. And when He entered me, there was no pain as in times past—only ecstasy.
But how could I commit such a sin as enjoying a man outside the bonds of holy matrimony? Should feminine virtue have not restrained me? Alas, I cared nothing for God, nor propriety, nor anything except Him. When He said, “What would you do for me?” I answered with all my heart: “Whatever you wish.” He was my master, the source of all the meaning in my life. I was His devoted slave.
He introduced me to prominent men who hailed from all over the kingdom and the Continent. I entertained them at balls, taverns, gambling dens, and in bedchambers. The purpose of this was never explained to me, yet I deduced that my actions allowed my master to gain advantage over these men. Every one of them was damaged in some way by his association with me, while my master reaped the fruits of my labor. To what miserable depths did He sink me!
But I could not afford to care. The first time He ordered me to bed a man, I said I could not, for I wanted only Him. His countenance darkened, but His voice was quiet as He said, “You shall obey me.” And my resolve crumbled because I saw that if I opposed His will, He would destroy me as He had destroyed other persons who defied Him. I obeyed, for the privilege of being with Him and keeping alive.
I trained myself to feel nothing towards the men I helped Him ruin. When I was presented to Lord John Russell, it mattered not that he was England’s Prime Minister; I viewed him as but more prey for my master. But even a slave may reach the limit of her obedience; even a fallen woman retains a shred of morality. The time finally came when my love for my master was tested.
He sent me to work as governess in the house of Joseph Lock, a Birmingham gun merchant. Mr. Lock was honest, kind, and a devout Christian. His wife was a fair, generous mistress to me, and their boys were affectionate and well behaved. They showed me the joy of an ordinary life. My heart began to ache for what I could never have, even as I sought to engage the affections of Mr. Lock. At first he resisted, ignoring my flirtatious gazes, avoiding me. Hating myself for the harm I would do him and his family, I went into his office, where he was working alone. He took me there on the floor, so great was the need I had aroused in him. Afterward, he wept, begging God to forgive his adultery.
Months passed, and our secret liaisons continued. His spirits declined, and his unsuspecting wife fretted over him, and how I pitied them both! He was clay in my hands, as was I in my master’s. Then one night he told me what our affair had cost him, and what my master had gained by it. Mr. Lock knew only part of the story, but I deduced the rest from talk I’d overheard at my master’s house. Shocked I was, for I had never suspected the breadth of His ambition; yet here was proof that He aspired to the power of kings. My discovery was the beginning of my disenchantment. I began to understand that I must free myself of Him, or consign my soul to eternal damnation. Still, I loved Him, and could not find the strength to break away—until He gave me His next command.
[Here some lines were scratched out.]
I was stunned by the audacity of His scheme. However, I did not doubt that He could succeed, for if He could compromise the Prime Minister, there seemed nothing He could not manage. The evil of it horrified me. How could I deliver helpless innocents into His grasp? How could I allow myself to be used as an instrument to shake the foundations of the world and bring disaster upon the kingdom?
I cannot, in spite of my fear of Him. To leave Him will cause me great agony, but leave I must, though my defiance will unleash the deadly force of His fury upon me. I write this on the eve before deserting my post at Mr. Lock’s house. As soon as I pay a last visit to my mother, I will journey to London, then out of the country. I must tell no one where I am going. In truth, I myself do not know my ultimate destination. I only know that I must travel far and fast. I can already feel His mind sensing my traitorous thoughts. He is always watching me, and as soon as I am gone from Birmingham, He will send His minions after me, for He cannot allow me to live, knowing what I know.
May God protect me and forgive my sins.
“I’ve never heard such an extraordinary, disturbing tale in my life!” Ellen exclaimed when she’d finished reading.
“Nor have I.” Indeed, I felt shaken and ill, as though I had absorbed the malignancy in Isabel’s words as I transcribed them. What miserable degradation had she undergone; with what obscene depravity had she behaved! I was disgusted by Isabel, even as I pitied her. Setting aside my pen and notebook, I said, “How glad I am that I didn’t tell Mrs. White about the hidden passages in the book.”
“Who can be this man that forced Isabel to do those things?” Ellen asked.
I now confronted my suspicion that had turned to mortal certainty as Isabel’s tale unfolded: Her unnamed master could be none other than the man I knew as Gilbert White. How well the description fit him! He must have discovered that Isabel had escaped his domination; he must have feared she would ruin his plans by refusing to obey him. He must also have guessed that Isabel had written their history, and he wished to destroy it to prevent exposure of his misdeeds. Had he not impersonated her brother to procure assistance from me, the last person to speak wit
h her? Had he not also searched her mother’s house? This seemed ample, damning proof that Gilbert White had killed his slave and pursued me solely to obtain her last testament.
I had other evidence which was less tangible yet more compelling: I had personally experienced the force of Mr. White’s allure. Hence, I understood how he could have gained such power over Isabel that she would do his bidding, however evil. That I had let this man into my life, and desired him as Isabel had! What awful sins might he have seduced me into committing?
“My dear, what’s wrong?” Ellen asked anxiously. “Your face has gone so pale!”
I was overcome by disgust at my own gullibility and my terror of Mr. White. I grew lightheaded and collapsed on the bed, my heart palpitating; yet I could not tell Ellen why. I had said nothing to her of Gilbert White, for fear that she would tease me as she did whenever a potential suitor entered my life, and I did not want her to know how I’d been duped. Nor did I think it wise to share with her my suspicions about this dangerous man.
“Isabel’s story gave me a bad spell,” I said. “Whatever shall I do with the book?”
“Give it to the police,” Ellen suggested. “If the mysterious master killed Isabel—and if he really is going to bring disaster upon the kingdom—then the police need to know.”
“But the London police think Isabel was the victim of a random attack,” I said. “I doubt that a fantastic account scribbled in an old book could convince anyone to believe otherwise. Besides, nowhere does Isabel name her master.”
The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 11