The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Emily seemed indifferent to Slade’s praise. We could not have suspected at the time how important her discovery would turn out to be.

  “That a school which purports to be a charity would ruin helpless, innocent girls is an outrage!” I exclaimed.

  Papa said, “I shall report the Reverend Grimshaw to the Church so that he may be censured and the school closed.”

  “As they should be,” said Slade. “But your taking action against the school will drive Monsieur LeDuc deeper into hiding. I am afraid we must leave it alone until our work is done.”

  “He’s right, Papa,” said Anne.

  “But the girls will suffer in the meantime,” Emily objected in alarm.

  “Therefore, it’s more important than ever that we find Monsieur LeDuc and put a stop to his evildoing as soon as possible,” I said.

  “We can catch a train to London tonight and book passage on a ship for Belgium tomorrow,” Mr. Slade said to me.

  I was thrilled that he would include me in his journey. He probably wished to avoid another argument, yet I dared to wonder if he might have another, more personal motive.

  The thought of traveling again, while I was on the verge of collapse from exhaustion and nervous strain, was appalling; still I jumped at the chance for another venture with Mr. Slade, and I heard the siren song that the thought of Belgium always stirs in my heart.

  “I will be ready,” I said.

  24

  THE STEAM PACKET LABORED ACROSS THE ENGLISH CHANNEL, the paddle wheels churning noisily, funnels belching smoke, and sails billowing. I stood on the deck, my eyes dazzled by the vast ocean that sparkled with cobalt, emerald, and aquamarine lights. Ships dotted the rolling waves. Seabirds wheeled high against the sky’s blue brilliance and majestic white clouds. I relished the salty wind. Mr. Slade and I had sailed from London on that day of 14 August, then boarded the Channel packet in Dover. Now the Continent came into view. The coast was a line of golden sunshine, touched with viridian green. As the ship bore me toward that coast I marveled that my quest had once again led me into the past.

  Twice before had I made this journey. The first time, in 1842, Papa had escorted Emily and me to school in Brussels. There I found the new sights, acquaintances, and knowledge I had longed for. I also gained other experiences that I could never have anticipated.

  It began innocently enough. At age twenty-five I was older than my classmates at the Pensionnat Heger, a Protestant among Catholics, a shy Englishwoman surrounded by gregarious, French-speaking Belgians. The only person who paid me any particular attention was Monsieur Heger, husband of the school’s mistress, a professor who instructed his wife’s pupils. His ruthless criticism of my essays made me cry; his praise thrilled me. He was a small, black-haired, black-bearded man of ugly face and irritable temper, but his keen intellect stimulated my mind. Soon my heart beat fast at the sight of him. In the evenings I chanced to meet him in the garden, where he smoked his cigars and we debated the merits of various authors. I thought of us as master and pupil, nothing more. Not until Emily and I returned home did I realize that I had deeper feelings for M. Heger.

  My second voyage across the Channel occurred in 1843. I returned alone to Brussels, eager to take up a position as an English teacher at the school. But Madame Heger began watching me and behaving coldly towards me. I never saw M. Heger except from a distance. Our lessons and talks ceased. Madame had discovered I was in love with her husband, and she had separated us. I stayed in Belgium until my health and spirits failed, and I at last recognized the sin and futility of loving a married man. I returned home, broken and grieving. My punishment was years of writing to M. Heger, begging him for letters that never came. That I loved him, and he cared naught for me, still hurts me. I am still plagued by a sense of unfinished business.

  Yet now, by a strange fortune, I found myself again bound for Brussels. I felt a familiar jumble of excitement, fear, and hope. I traveled as if upon a dark, turbulent sea of memory.

  Mr. Slade joined me at the railing. His folded arms rested close beside mine; the wind ruffled his black hair. My heartbeat quickened for him as it once had for M. Heger.

  “The sea refreshes even the most aggrieved mind,” Mr. Slade said in a quiet, musing tone.

  I had discovered this to be true, and I wondered what experience had inspired Mr. Slade’s remark. “Whenever I am near the sea, I feel such awe, exhilaration, and freedom.” Those emotions surged through me now. “Its magnificence elevates me above my petty concerns.”

  Mr. Slade gave me a sidelong look. “Such magnificence dwarfs mankind and shows us how weak we are compared to the forces of nature.”

  “Indeed,” I said, “but for me, the ocean inspires a glorious sense that anything is possible. I feel myself to be in the presence of God.”

  Mr. Slade’s expression turned remote. “I wish I could share your delight in His presence,” he said. “There was a time when I renounced God for His cruelty.”

  His harsh words shocked and appalled me.

  “There was a time when I wished never to cross this sea again because I couldn’t bear to face the past,” he said.

  I saw that Mr. Slade was reflecting upon memories which were no less bitter than mine. The sea had worked some enchantment on us, bringing our deepest secrets close to the surface. Launched free from land and ordinary restraints, we could talk frankly.

  “Did something go wrong in your work as a spy?” I asked.

  A humorless laugh gusted from Mr. Slade. “Had I concentrated solely on spying, misfortune would have spared me.” Silence ensued while he contemplated the distant shore. Then he began to speak in a voice drained of emotion: “One of the men I spied upon was a French professor at the Sorbonne in Paris. He led a secret society that aimed to overthrow King Louis Philippe. I posed as an aspiring radical French journalist and was admitted to the society. The professor had a daughter named Mireille. She kept house for him and wrote political tracts about corruption in the court. She was the most beautiful, enchanting woman I had ever met.”

  A note of yearning nostalgia crept into Mr. Slade’s voice. Much as I wanted to hear his story, I did not like to listen to him praise another woman for traits I clearly lacked.

  “Mireille was a Catholic and a fiery, passionate Frenchwoman,” Mr. Slade continued, “while I was a serious Briton and ordained clergyman of the Church of England. She was a rebel, and I the agent bound to destroy her and her comrades. In spite of our differences, we fell in love.”

  Though my spirit recoiled from hearing of his love for another woman, I felt a poignant kinship with Mr. Slade: We both had loved unwisely. I recalled his sister Kate’s allusion to a broken heart and presumed that this affair had not ended well.

  “Mireille and I married,” said Mr. Slade. “We were very poor and lived in a garret, but we were happy together. Soon she was expecting our child. She didn’t know that I wasn’t what I seemed—until one night shortly before the child was due to be born. A man in the society had learned my true identity. He told her I was a British spy. That night she confronted me with her knowledge. She was enraged, hysterical. She accused me of betraying her and her cause. I tried to calm her and apologize for lying to her. I said that since we’d met I had grown sympathetic to the rebels, which I truly had. I swore that I’d never reported on her or her comrades to my superiors, as indeed I had not. I had betrayed my own cause for love of her. But Mireille refused to believe me. She called me a filthy scoundrel, then ran out of the house.”

  Mr. Slade stood motionless, his hands steady on the railing, his manner stoic. “I let Mireille go because I was too proud to follow. I thought she would soon return and we would make peace. But the next night, the police raided the professor’s house during a meeting of the secret society. They arrested all the members. Mireille was among them. The police took everyone to prison. The professor was executed for treason. And Mireille—”

  The muscles of Mr. Slade’s throat contracted. “She gave birth
to our son in prison that night. He was stillborn. She died some hours afterward, hating me.” Mr. Slade paused and, with a visible struggle, regained his composure. “Never have I spoken of this to anyone.”

  What shock, horror, and compassion I felt! “I am so sorry,” I murmured, inadequate to comfort him, yet glad he’d confided in me.

  His gaze was fixed on some inner horizon. “Seven years have passed since Mireille’s death. Seven years during which I threw myself into my work because I had nothing else, though I’d come to doubt the morality of what I did. Mireille taught me to see the rebels as people oppressed by their rulers, the allies of my superiors. I closed my mind to those thoughts, and closed myself to anybody who might gain my affection and cause me more pain. But now I see the sun rising after a night I expected to last forever. I begin to think that God is benevolent as well as cruel; He compensates for what he takes away.”

  Bemusement inflected Mr. Slade’s quiet voice. He glanced at me, but I instinctively averted my eyes so that I missed the look in his. He spoke in words almost inaudible: “I begin to find happiness and meaning in life again.”

  My hands tightened on the rail. I wanted to believe that our companionship was the cause of his renaissance; yet I knew that his beautiful, beloved wife was my rival, even though she was dead. Now I faced a dismal fact: I was as much in love with Mr. Slade as I had been with M. Heger, in spite of there being as little prospect for requital. Perhaps the search for Isabel White’s master was what had diverted Mr. Slade from his grief; perhaps he endured my company only because he wanted me to draw the criminal out of hiding.

  As with my previous journeys, what happened in Brussels was something I could never have anticipated.

  We disembarked at Ostend, where we caught a train for Brussels. As we traveled across the flat, bare Belgian countryside, I gazed out the window. The sky was a leaden, uniform grey; the air was warm, stagnant, and humid. Pollarded willow trees edged fields tilled in a patchwork of green hues; torpid canals lined the roadsides. Painted cottages added specks of color to the serene landscape which gave no hint of the many wars fought here. First conquered by Julius Caesar, Belgium was later ruled by the Franks, by the Dukes of Burgundy, and then the Hapsburgs; these were followed by the Holy Roman Emperors of Austria and Spain, by France under Napoleon, and by Holland under the Prince of Orange. Belgium finally won independence in 1831, and it kept peace during the revolutions this year. Here I, too, had won a battle—to tear myself away from M. Heger before my love for him destroyed me.

  Upon reaching Brussels, I rode with Mr. Slade in a carriage through the avenues. Medieval houses still sheltered in cobbled lanes near boulevards lined with stately mansions. Colorful open-air cafes and markets still bustled; the air still smelled of the foul River Senne. Burghers clad in dark coats and hats abounded, as did peasants in rustic garb. Voices babbled in French and Flemish. I couldn’t help searching the crowds for M. Heger. We entered the Grand Place, the main square in the lower city. The bell in the tower of the Gothic town hall tolled seven o’clock. Gas lamps illuminated the scrolled gables, fanciful statuary, and elaborate gold ornamentation that graced the merchant guild houses. In the east, the towers of the Church of St. Michel and Ste. Gudule rose majestically on the hillside. I gazed beyond it, towards the aristocratic upper city, where the Pensionnat Heger stood.

  Mr. Slade secured us lodgings in the Rue du Marché aux Herbes, at the Hotel Central. Such palatial elegance! Such glittering mirrors and chandeliers! Such a smart clientele! My spacious room was furnished with brocade chairs, fluted lamps, and luxurious Flemish carpets and tapestries. I spent my first evening there, and much of the following day, while Mr. Slade went out to recruit his friends among the Brussels police on a hunt for the exiled French radical LeDuc.

  He returned the next day at dusk. We sat together in the hotel’s candlelit dining room, where ornate silver and fine crystal sparkled on tables laid with white linen. Suave waiters served us wine, mussels in garlic and cream, and rabbit stew. The rich food overwhelmed my palate. I felt drab among the fashionable diners. Mr. Slade looked handsome in his evening dress, but weary and discouraged.

  “We found LeDuc,” he said. “ An odd, repulsive fellow he is—not above four feet high, with a bald head, pale, blazing eyes, and an arrogant manner. He lives in a dirty attic room, and he was conveniently at home.”

  “What happened?” I asked, wondering why he didn’t act happier to have located our quarry.

  “At first he denied any connection with the Birmingham Chartists, but after the police roughed him up a bit, he changed his mind. He claims to take orders from a man who is immensely wealthy and extremely secretive. This man told LeDuc to instruct the Birmingham Chartists to take guns from Joseph Lock and murder Isabel White. He paid well for these services, and his money also went towards financing the recent insurrection in France. However, LeDuc doesn’t know the man’s name. They are in frequent contact, and they meet in person, yet LeDuc has never set eyes on him.”

  “How can that be?” I said in puzzlement.

  “Whenever the man wants LeDuc, he sends a carriage. The driver blindfolds LeDuc and drives him to a house. When he arrives, he and his master talk together. His blindfold stays on the entire time, so he doesn’t know where the house is or what it looks like. Nor can he describe his host. Afterward, the carriage takes him home. LeDuc stuck to his story even when the police threatened him with prison.” Mr. Slade drank his wine, as if to swallow his exasperation. “I’m forced to believe Leduc is telling the truth, and the criminal we seek isn’t him, but his nameless master.”

  We had come all the way to Brussels to discover that we had misidentified our quarry and the chase was at a dead end. “LeDuc must have noticed something about the man that might identify him, or something about the house that will help us locate it,” I said.

  “He furnished two observations,” said Slade. “The house has a peculiar, sweet smell. And the man speaks French with an odd foreign accent that LeDuc didn’t recognize.”

  These seemed meager clues to me. As Slade and I sat in mutual discouragement, a waiter approached me. “Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle, mais vous avez un visiteur.”

  “A visitor? For me?” I said, so startled that I forgot my French and spoke in English.

  The waiter said, “C’est un gentilhomme, qui vous attende au jardin,” then departed.

  Mr. Slade regarded me with alarm. “What gentleman knows you’re in Brussels?”

  “I cannot imagine,” I said.

  “He must have traced you here.” Excitement animated Mr. Slade, and I knew he referred to the criminal we sought. “He has come to you, or sent one of his henchmen, as we hoped he would.”

  We hurried to the glass doors and peered out at the garden, but trees concealed my visitor. “I cannot go out there,” I said, shrinking back in terror.

  “You must. This may be our only hope of capturing the criminal.” Mr. Slade took hold of my shoulders, gazed intently into my eyes, and spoke with adamant insistence: “You’ve nothing to fear. You won’t be alone. I’ll be watching every moment.”

  His determination overcame my resistance; I nodded. “Wait a few minutes while I steal into the garden from the back,” he said, then rushed from the room.

  I stood quaking with fright, unwilling to leave the safety of the hotel. But I could not throw away what might be our mission’s only hope of success. Nor could I waste the work for which my sisters had risked their safety. I opened the door and stepped outside.

  The setting sun gilded the garden. The day’s lingering heat engulfed me as I crept down the flagstone path. I heard crickets chirping, birds singing, carriages in the streets, and the pounding of my own heart. Rosebushes bordered the path, and each ragged breath I drew filled my lungs with the sweetness of the blossoms. Ahead stood a gazebo. I perceived a man standing inside at the same instant I smelled pungent smoke from the cigar he held. Memories too potent to articulate halted my progress. I stared in ast
onishment as the man stepped out of the gazebo and walked towards me.

  “So, Miss Charlotte,” he said in the brusque, heavily accented English that I’d not heard for almost five years, other than in my dreams. “We meet again.”

  He doffed his hat to me. His black hair and beard were streaked with grey, and time had etched new wrinkles around the eyes behind his spectacles; but otherwise his stern visage was the same as that which lived in my memory.

  It was M. Heger.

  25

  I STOOD TRANSFIXED WHILE MY LIPS FORMED SOUNDLESS WORDS. I FELT faint and dizzy; a violent trembling seized me.

  “Is this how you greet your old teacher?” M. Heger snapped. His face took on the same fierce scowl as when he’d discovered mistakes in my essays long ago. “Shameful! Deplorable!”

  Composure failed me: I burst into hysterical weeping. M. Heger’s expression softened, the way it always had after his savage criticism wounded me. He tenderly dried my tears with his handkerchief.

  “Ah, petite cherie, do not cry,” he said. “The shock, it was too much for you. I should not have arrived without warning. My sincerest apologies.”

  While M. Heger patted my shoulder and murmured endearments, I cried for anguish remembered; I cried for joy. And when it ended, I was calm as the sea after a storm.

  “How did you know to find me here?” I asked. “Why have you come?”

  “It is a strange story,” he said with a characteristic shrug. “This morning I received a letter from someone who did not sign his name. This letter said that my old pupil Charlotte Brontë was at the Hotel Central, and would I kindly deliver to her the enclosed message.”

  M. Heger gave me a small white envelope. So dazed I was that I didn’t think to wonder at the meaning of this happenstance. I simply put the envelope in my pocket.