The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Papa nodded, but I did not like Mr. Slade’s idea; nor did Anne, as I could tell by her perturbed expression. He said, “Is something wrong? Do you object to my plan?”

  “It gives me nothing to do except wait, like cheese in a mouse-trap,” I said. “I can’t bear to sit idle until the trap springs.” Nor did I like to think I was useless to him except as bait.

  “There must be something we can do,” Anne added.

  Mr. Slade frowned. “These matters are best left to professionals.”

  I observed that he disliked opposition; yet pride forbade me to let him govern my behavior as well as torment my heart. “If you are going to live in our home, you must respect our right to help ourselves.”

  “I respect every right of yours.” Mr. Slade spoke cautiously, aware that we were on new, untested footing. “But I don’t see what you could do for this investigation, except what I’ve proposed.”

  I have always hated to be underestimated, especially by those for whom I care more than I should. “How will your agents get inside the school or Mr. Lock’s house to gather clues? Someone with good reason to be there would be more likely to discover something worthwhile.”

  “Surely you don’t mean yourself?”

  Mr. Slade’s incredulity encouraged my contrariness. “I do. Mightn’t the Lock family need a new governess now that Isabel White is gone? And the Charity School needs a teacher.” The housekeeper had indicated as much when she’d answered the door. “I am qualified to fill either post.”

  “That is out of the question,” Mr. Slade said, adamant. “Even if you were to be hired, I could not protect you. And if the villain should discover you snooping, you would be in great trouble. You cannot go.”

  “I could,” said Anne.

  “You mustn’t,” I exclaimed. “There’s no telling what would happen if you were found to be a spy.” I was afraid for her safety, if not my own. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “It’s too dangerous for either of you,” Mr. Slade said.

  Ignoring him, Anne turned to me. “Are you saying you wouldn’t get caught, but I would? I, too, am an experienced governess; do you not trust me to play the part?”

  “I don’t doubt your competence,” I said, although I did. “I just prefer to risk myself rather than you.”

  Anne could see that I thought her weak and ineffectual. “Dear Charlotte, this is my chance to show you that I’m capable of more than you believe.”

  A critical choice lay before me: I must either recognize her as my equal by letting her prevail over me, or override her and permanently damage our sisterhood. “Then you’d better go to Mr. Lock’s house,” I said reluctantly, “because if the men who attacked us on the train return to the school, they might see you and recognize you.”

  “They wouldn’t recognize me,” said Emily.

  Anne and I beheld her with surprise. Keeping her face averted, she went on: “Those men have never seen me. Neither they nor anyone else associated with Isabel White would know of my connection to Charlotte.” Emily paused, gathering breath and courage. “I’ve been a teacher. I look the part of a destitute gentlewoman. I daresay the Charity School would hire me.”

  Imagine my shock! “Do you mean you would go away and live among strangers?” I stared at Emily in disbelief, as did Anne and Papa. Mr. Slade, unaware of Emily’s disinclination to leave Haworth, merely looked puzzled.

  Emily swung her gaze to me. “I can’t hide at home while your life is in peril,” she said bravely, though she hugged Keeper the way a person lost at sea clings to a raft.

  My earlier narrative portrays Emily as self-centered and unlikable; yet she had a generous spirit that surfaced in times of dire need. She also possessed great courage under circumstances that would challenge the bravest of us. I recalled the time, several years ago, when she’d been chased and bitten by a mad dog. She had simply cauterized the wound with a hot poker, then gone about her business, despite the fact that she might have been fatally infected. Now she would extend herself for my sake, with the same noble stoicism. Love and admiration for her swelled my heart.

  “Thank you, Emily,” I said with tenderness.

  A sound of protest issued from Mr. Slade; he stood. “This discussion is pointless.” Anger and dismay darkened his face. “None of you shall set foot out of Haworth.”

  We heeded him not, for the joy of renewed harmony, and the thrill of collaboration, carried us beyond his control. Alone, I might have been subjugated by him; partnered with my sisters, I felt my power over my own fate multiplied threefold.

  Anne said, “If I obtain a post in the Lock house while Emily goes to the Charity School, what will you do, Charlotte?”

  “There is an important clue in Isabel’s diary that remains to be investigated.” Turning to Mr. Slade, I said, “Wouldn’t you rather investigate it yourself, than rely on your associates?”

  “What clue?” he demanded.

  “If you won’t allow us to participate in the investigation, I won’t give you my transcript of the diary or tell you what is in it besides that which I’ve already told you,” I retorted.

  Outrage filled his expression. “This is akin to blackmail!”

  Yet I sensed that he admired my cleverness, albeit grudgingly. This gave me much satisfaction. “So be it.”

  Mr. Slade looked confused, then vexed. “Even if I were to let your sisters have their way, I couldn’t go off and leave you unprotected.”

  “Then take me with you,” I said. Carried away by excitement, I didn’t think about the impropriety of our traveling together. I knew only that I must prove my worth to him, and take a hand in protecting my family and myself, no matter the risks.

  “You’ve gone mad,” Mr. Slade said with a derisive laugh. “The idea of your accompanying me while I make inquiries—” He ran a hand over his tousled hair in a gesture of exasperation. “It’s impossible.”

  He looked to Papa, who only shrugged and said, “I fear I am powerless to influence the girls when they’ve made up their minds.”

  I almost laughed with giddy delight at Mr. Slade’s chagrin. He said, “You are all amateurs, and you wouldn’t know what to look for, or how to avoid detection. You could ruin our chances of capturing the villain and thwarting his scheme, in addition to endangering yourselves.” Mr. Slade folded his arms and his expression turned obstinate. “If you want my help, you’ll follow my plan.”

  I saw in him the authority of a man accustomed to leading; I also perceived the fiery aura of ambition that surrounded him. “If you want our cooperation, you will honor our wishes.”

  My pulse raced as Anne, Emily, and I rose simultaneously and stood together, united against Mr. Slade. Often my sisters and I had been downtrodden, imposed upon, and disregarded. Singly we were weak, but our alliance now generated a mystical, strengthening force. Mr. Slade retreated a step backward from us, and his face took on the wonder of a man viewing a phenomenon he doesn’t understand. I beheld the hands that had once restrained me, the face I had struck, the body whose strength I’d opposed, and the mouth I had wanted to kiss. My heartbeat thundered like the storm on the moors; my blood rushed like the wind.

  The wonder in Slade’s gaze changed to something akin to enlightenment. Unspoken words parted his lips, and I waited, breathless—for what revelation? Then the lucid depths of his eyes went opaque, as though he had closed some internal barrier against me. His features darkened with grim resignation.

  “God help us all,” he said.

  18

  A WEEK PASSED, DURING WHICH MR. SLADE REMAINED IN THE parsonage, taking meals with us and sharing our nightly prayers. He also spent much time writing letters, and reading letters he received, in the upstairs study where he lived. Whenever I went out, he accompanied me as my protector. His Irish charm won him general acclaim in the village and caused quite a stir among the young ladies. Papa respected him; Anne treated him fondly. Emily even stopped hiding from him, and Keeper now wagged his tail at Mr. Slade.

>   One might think that all the hours we spent together would have fostered a new acquaintance between Mr. Slade and myself. Yet I was afraid of saying anything that would reveal my feelings for him; consequently, my manner towards him was taciturn. His towards me exemplified cautious restraint.

  At night Mr. Slade stayed downstairs, guarding the house, though he never seemed the worse for his wakeful nights. Perhaps his vigilance kept danger at bay, but still, I did not feel safe. Matters could not continue thus. Mr. Slade, through some arcane means, obtained for Anne the post of governess to Joseph Lock’s children. She left for Birmingham on Monday, 7 August, the same day Emily journeyed to the Charity School. Mr. Slade and I set out for London that very morning.

  I had kept my bargain, showing him my transcript of Isabel’s diary and pointing out the mention of the prime minister. Now we sat in the train, on our way to investigate the very same man. With every revolution of the wheels, my own rashness appalled me more. What could I hope to accomplish? Did anyone deduce that I was traveling with a man who was only posing as my kin? I feared disgrace as much as I did the possibility that Isabel White’s killer pursued me.

  After we had gone many miles, Mr. Slade produced a book and said, “Do ye recognize this?” In public, he maintained his Irish brogue for my safety.

  The sight of Jane Eyre in his hand gave me a turn. “I believe I do,” I murmured.

  “The author has a remarkable talent for storytellin’. I stayed up all night readin’ until I finished.”

  I blushed with pride, as I always do when someone praises my work. I dreaded to continue the discussion, for they who praise a book often disparage it in the next breath.

  “The tale did strike me as rather improbable,” Mr. Slade said.

  My guard enclosed me like a suit of armor. “In what way?”

  “Jane and Rochester were an odd pairing,” Mr. Slade said. “In real life, they’d never have formed an attachment.”

  Stung by his criticism, I said tartly, “May I ask why not?”

  “Rochester is a man of property and position, and Jane a penniless orphan. They’re from different worlds.”

  “Similar status is not the only basis for a union between a man and woman,” I said, growing flustered as I defended my book. “Compatibility of minds is also important.”

  “In fiction, perhaps,” Mr. Slade said. “But if Jane and Rochester were to exist, he would never discover their compatibility. A man like him, who has always required beauty and vivacity in a woman, doesn’t so easily forgo those attributes. And Jane quite lacks them.”

  His words flayed me. “Jane’s character and judgment compensate for her lack,” I protested.

  “True. But Rochester would never have noticed those good qualities behind her plainness, if not for the author’s guiding hand.” Mr. Slade added gently, “Forgive me if I’ve upset ye. Jane Eyre is a fine tale, and I don’t mean to diminish it.”

  Alas, he had done more than diminish my book. He had ground my heart under his heel. I sought a change of subject. “Dr. Dury told me you’d been a soldier in Turkestan,” I said, then indicated a wish to hear of his experiences there.

  Nostalgia veiled Mr. Slade’s eyes. “Middle Asia is a land of wild, savage beauty,” he said, and described its deserts, high mountains, exotic bazaars and mosques, and tribal warriors. “It’s also a troubled land that has been invaded throughout history by the Greeks, Persians, Mongols, Arabs, and Turks.”

  He described the invasion of Kabul by the British East India Army and how it had gone wrong. “Forty-five hundred British troops and twelve thousand women, children, and Indian sepoys retreated from the kingdom in January 1842. The weather was bitterly cold, and the country deep in snow. Native partisans fired on us as we struggled through the Khurd Kabul Pass. Almost all of us were massacred.”

  “You were on the march?” I said in surprise. “I read that there was but one survivor: an army doctor.”

  “I was wounded and left for dead.” Mr. Slade’s grim manner hinted at horrors seen and suffered. For the first time since he’d come to Haworth, I glimpsed his true self through his genial Irish guise. “Later, I was discovered by natives I’d befriended. They hid me and cared for me. Eventually I made my way back to England.”

  In awe of him, I said, “Working in France afterwards must have been more pleasant.”

  His face went rigid and a shadow darkened it. “Not in the end,” he said coldly, and turned away.

  I felt mortified because I had intruded on private ground and he had spurned me. I wished to know what had happened to Mr. Slade in France, but dared not ask. Little more conversation passed between us.

  When we reached London, Mr. Slade hired a carriage. We drove around the streets, and after he ascertained that no one was following us, we proceeded to the home of his elder sister, with whom he had arranged for us to stay. Katherine Slade Abbot was a respectable, well-to-do widow; she lived in an elegant house in Mayfair. Mrs. Abbot, or Kate, as Mr. Slade fondly called her, had his coloring and eyes; she was pretty, vivacious, and kind. After we dined, Mr. Slade hurried me into another carriage. We rode by an indirect route to the Foreign Office to confer with his superiors.

  The Foreign Office was situated on Downing Street, in bleak, grimy brick buildings. We went to a room paneled in dark wood and lit by gas lamps. Seven men sat at a long table. The man at its head was some fifty years old, with a rigid bearing and sleek hair the color of his sallow, pallid complexion; he wore a gold satin waistcoat. Reader, you will recognize him as Lord Unwin, the man whom Slade met in the Five Coins Tavern after the murder of Isabel White. His companions were nondescript and dressed in drab hues. The smoke from their pipes hung in the air. Everyone rose when Mr. Slade and I entered the room. Being the only woman present discomposed me. That I’d had the temerity to demand participation in a matter within their purview now seemed ludicrous.

  They greeted Mr. Slade, who turned to me, indicated the man at the head of the table, and said, “May I introduce Lord Alistair Unwin, deputy chief of the Foreign Office.” He had dropped the Irish brogue and spoke in his own voice. To Lord Unwin, he said, “This is Miss Charlotte Brontë.”

  Quaking inside, wishing myself at home, I curtsied. Lord Unwin bowed politely, but his arched eyebrows and sharp, haughty features conveyed disdain towards me, and I took an immediate dislike to him. “Please be seated,” he said.

  I was not introduced to the other men. Mr. Slade and I took chairs at the end of the table. Lord Unwin addressed Mr. Slade: “You’ve chosen an inconvenient hour to meet. I’m late for a ball.”

  “My apologies, Lord Unwin,” Mr. Slade said, “but Miss Brontë and I have only just arrived in town, and there are matters that must be discussed without delay.”

  Lord Unwin glowered at Mr. Slade, and I observed the animosity between them. “I presume these urgent matters concern the murders of Isabel White, Joseph Lock, and Isaiah Fearon, as well as your investigation of a conspiracy against the Crown?”

  “They do, my lord,” said Mr. Slade. The other men watched in somber silence.

  “Well, tell us what you have to report, and be quick about it.”

  “Miss Brontë has visited Isabel White’s mother and the school Isabel attended,” Mr. Slade said. “She has come to relate her discoveries to you.”

  Self-conscious and faltering under the men’s scrutiny, I told what I’d learned. When I finished, Lord Unwin said, “How admirable, Miss Brontë. Our sincerest thanks.” He gave Mr. Slade a contemptuous smile. “So Miss Brontë has obtained Isabel White’s missing book and the important clues therein. She has also linked the Charity School to the men who attacked her on the train and who have an apparent connection with the mysterious criminal we seek. That’s more than you’ve accomplished lately. How fortunate for us that she happened along.”

  Anger smoldered in Mr. Slade’s eyes. I could hardly enjoy praise given at his expense, and I wondered at the reason for Lord Unwin’s ill treatment of him. Mr. S
lade said evenly, “It is fortunate indeed that Miss Brontë is helping with our inquiries.”

  “What have you done to further them?” Lord Unwin frowned at his gold watch.

  “I’ve sent Miss Brontë’s sister Anne to be a governess in Joseph Lock’s house,” Mr. Slade replied. “She’ll try to learn why Lock killed himself and what connections the gun factory may still have with our criminal. Her other sister, Emily, has gone to teach at the Charity School, in the hope of discovering how it fits into the criminal’s scheme, and what that scheme is.”

  Lord Unwin received this news with amazement. “You allowed Miss Brontë’s sisters to undertake the work of professional agents?” he said, his voice rising to a shrill pitch. “My dear fellow, have you gone mad?” His subordinates’ faces reflected his disapproval. “Should these women bungle the attempt, our mission could be compromised.” He was more concerned for his mission than for my sisters’ safety, and I liked him even less.

  “Anne and Emily Brontë are experienced teachers, and they’ll perform their roles more convincingly than could agents posing as teachers,” Mr. Slade said. “They understand the need for caution, and I have confidence in them.”

  Though he spoke with patient calm, I sensed how much Lord Unwin’s reproof disturbed him. By insisting on our involvement, my sisters and I had undermined Mr. Slade’s standing in the Foreign Office. That he took the blame for our actions instead of laying it on us did his manners credit.

  “If your amateur spies do cause trouble, you shall be held personally responsible,” Lord Unwin said in a threatening tone. “What other plans have you?”

  “Isabel White wrote that her master had drawn the prime minister into his scheme.” Mr. Slade rose, gave Lord Unwin my copy of the message from the book, then took his seat again.