“I must admit that this errand for a mysterious stranger was just a—how do you say it?—a pretext for coming,” M. Heger said. “I wished to see Miss Charlotte, to know how the years have treated her.”
His penetrating gaze examined my face. I worried that I must seem aged and ugly to him. Concern, sympathy, and sadness played across his Gallic features. “Life has brought you suffering, oui?” he said. Then he smiled. “But the impassioned spirit still burns bright within you.”
His perception had always rendered me transparent. Now I felt a tinge of anger that he should treat me with such familiarity. “If you wanted to know of me, then why did you break off all communication between us? Why did you not answer my letters?”
Sorrow and guilt clouded M. Heger’s face. “How I treated you has long disturbed my conscience. I will explain, if you will grant me the honor of listening. Shall we walk together?”
M. Heger drew my arm through his, and we strolled the paths. It was as if some magic spell had transported us back in time to the garden behind the Pensionnat. The smoke from his cigar and the scent of the roses completed the illusion.
“Let us imagine that there was once a man who lived in this very city,” said M. Heger. “He was respectably married to a woman of impeccable character. He was a teacher, she the directrice of a school for young ladies. A fitting match, non?”
I nodded as I understood that M. Heger was telling his own story.
“Perhaps their marriage had been arranged for convenience,” M. Heger went on, in the same dispassionate voice. “Perhaps their souls spoke different languages. But they had four beautiful children, the esteem of their acquaintances, a modest fortune, and a comfortable place in the world. The man had his profession. He thought himself happy. Then one day the man met a new pupil at his wife’s school,” M. Heger said as we circled the gazebo. “This pupil was une demoiselle anglaise. She was little, poor, and plain, but such a rare, wonderful intellect she had!”
Awe inflected M. Heger’s tone, and I grew hot with embarrassment at my entry into the story.
“Such a thrill it was for the man to instruct la demoiselle anglaise,” said M. Heger. “She responded to his teaching as no other pupil ever had. She read, she wrote, she studied with a passion that matched his own. At first he thought his interest in her to be purely professional. When he noticed her growing attachment to him, he told himself it would benefit her education.” Self-mockery tinged M. Heger’s smile. “But alas, things are never so simple between male and female, are they?”
My heart began to pound in anticipation.
“The man believed he was only flattered by his pupil’s affection. He believed that the new meaning he had found in life was due to his success in teaching her. When they walked and talked together in the evenings, he convinced himself that he regarded her only as his star pupil. He did not notice that all his attention was for her, until his wife confronted him. ‘You have fallen in love with la demoiselle anglaise,’ she said.” Exhaling deeply, M. Heger shook his head. “And the man realized it to be true.”
M. Heger was confessing that he had loved me! This was shock upon shock, and my legs buckled. M. Heger hastened me into the gazebo and seated us on a bench.
“Why didn’t you tell me then?” I cried. “Why did you let me think you cared nothing about me and withdraw your friendship from me?”
“Ah, petite cherie, what else could I have done?” M. Heger’s voice was rueful. “To have revealed my feelings for you would have encouraged yours for me, non? Together we must surely have succumbed to temptation. I had no choice but to cast you off. And although I treasured every letter from Miss Charlotte, I could not reply, lest our correspondence provoke me to rush across the sea towards her.”
His revelation was balm to my hurt pride. A peaceful quiet enveloped us as the sunlight faded to a coppery glow and cool shadows gathered in the garden. “Time quenches desire and transforms love into affection,” M. Heger said, voicing my own thoughts. “Can we put the ills of the past behind us and remember its good? Can you forgive me?”
“Gladly,” I said with all my heart.
A look of worry persisted on M. Heger’s face. He said, “Yet I wish I had given you more than pain.”
I felt like a fairy tale princess awakened by the shattering of a spell. I thought of the stories I’d penned before we met—those pointless, rambling, overwrought tales that are fit only for scrap paper. I recalled the days of writing Jane Eyre and hearing M. Heger’s voice inside my head: Clumsy expression! Unnecessary verbiage! You must sacrifice, without pity, everything that does not contribute to clarity, verisimilitude, and effect! The suffering I endured as a result of my love for him now seemed worth the book which was as much a product of his teaching as of my own creation.
“You gave me something more valuable than you ever thought,” I said.
I told M. Heger about my literary success, and he was deeply gratified. When I told him of my business in Belgium, he expressed surprise, wished me good fortune, and clasped my hands. He espied that I wore no wedding ring.
“You are not married,” he said regretfully. Then a mischievous twinkle lit his eyes. “But perhaps your state may change.” He cocked his head towards the hotel. “Who is that gentleman over there who has been watching us?”
To my surprise, I saw Mr. Slade standing not far away. I had all but forgotten our plan for him to protect me and trap the criminal. He had apparently deduced that I was in no danger. I was mortified that Mr. Slade had witnessed my display of emotion, yet amused by his obvious perplexity.
“He regards you with a possessive interest.” M. Heger asked slyly, “Is he your suitor?”
“No,” I said, abashed.
M. Heger smiled in a manner that said he, with his worldly Gallic wisdom, knew better than I. “I wish happiness to you both,” he said.
We bade each other an affectionate farewell. M. Heger kissed my hand; then I stood in the gazebo and watched him walk briskly away. He paused to give Mr. Slade a formal bow. Then M. Heger was gone.
Mr. Slade hurried to me. “Who the devil was that?”
I felt as though I had journeyed into another sphere and abruptly returned, with an enormous weight lifted off my shoulders. “An old friend. His name is Constantin Heger.”
“How did he find you here?”
I explained. Now that my shock at seeing M. Heger had abated, the circumstances that brought about our reunion seemed more and more implausible.
“For your friend to be mysteriously sent to you can be no harmless coincidence,” Mr. Slade said. “Where is the letter he brought?”
“Here,” I said, producing it from my pocket. Mr. Slade sat on the bench beside me as I opened the envelope and removed two sheets of white paper exuding an unfamiliar sweet, exotic fragrance. They were covered with elegant handwriting in black ink. I read aloud:
My dear Miss Brontë,
Please forgive me for addressing you before we have established a formal acquaintance. Although we have yet to be introduced, you certainly know of me. Indeed, you ventured to Bradford, and to the Reverend Grimshaw’s Charity School, in search of information regarding myself. Perhaps our mutual friend Isabel White mentioned me when you traveled to London together, or in the book she gave you. Therefore, you cannot regard me as a stranger. And I, who have closely studied you in recent weeks, have learned much about you.
I know that your father is vicar of St. Michael’s Church in Haworth and that he was widowed upon the death of your mother in 1821. Your brother is the village wastrel. You were educated at the Clergy Daughters’ School in Cowan Bridge, Miss Wooler’s School in Roe Head, and the Pensionnat Heger in Brussels. You and your sisters have eked out a meager living as governesses.
I am intrigued that you, with your humble history and impoverished circumstances, should involve yourself in world affairs far beyond the realm of your existence. That you have followed my trail, and come so close to me, indicates that you are a woma
n of rare character. My interest in you, and yours in me, have induced me to take the liberty of sending you this message by way of M. Heger, the Belgian gentleman to whom you once sent many letters.
It is with regret that I confess to a previous attempt at contacting you. That was, as you might surmise, the incident at Leeds Station. My two colleagues disobeyed my orders to treat you with proper courtesy. Please accept my apologies for their rudeness. Now let us make our acquaintance under more civilized conditions.
Will you do me the honor of dining with me tomorrow evening? I wish to discuss with you a proposal to serve our common interests. I will send a carriage to your hotel at six o’clock. Should you decide to accept my invitation, all you need do is enter the carriage, and you shall be brought to me.
Much as I would like to include your cousin who is traveling with you, I must ask that you come alone.
I hope that tomorrow will mark the onset of a mutually rewarding association.
“There’s no signature,” I told Mr. Slade. “But can there be any question about who wrote this letter?” Horror filled me. “It was Isabel White’s master!”
“How extraordinary that he should communicate with you, just when we thought we would never find him,” Mr. Slade said.
I hurled away the letter as though it carried the plague. “He knows so much about me. Your true identity seems one of the few things he hasn’t learned from spies he sent to loiter in Haworth and question the villagers.”
He must have heard from the gossipy postmistress about my letters to M. Heger. My revulsion immediately turned to terror. “He’s been following me all along, waiting for his moment to approach me,” I cried. “He knows where I am. He’s here in Brussels.” I jumped up, and my frantic gaze roamed the garden, the roofs of the buildings surrounding the hotel, and the darkening sky.
“If he wanted to attack you, he would have done so already,” Mr. Slade said. “He means to lure you with this.” Mr. Slade retrieved the letter, which had fallen to the ground.
“I can’t go,” I said, aghast at the thought of delivering myself to the man whose minions had murdered Isabel White and Isaiah Fearon and who had almost killed my brother.
“And you won’t,” declared Mr. Slade. He examined the letter and envelope. “These give no clue to who or where the criminal is, but when the carriage comes for you tomorrow, the police and I shall follow it.”
“Will the carriage go to him even if I’m not inside?” I said doubtfully.
“If it doesn’t, we’ll arrest the driver and force him to reveal who his master is.”
I hated to find fault with Mr. Slade’s plan, but I said, “The criminal keeps his identity a secret even from his henchmen. What if the driver knows as little about him as M. LeDuc did?”
“He should at least know where he was ordered to take you,” Mr. Slade said.
“By the time you find out, the criminal might have already vanished,” I said. “We’ll have lost what may be our only chance to catch him. He’ll realize that I have tried to trap him, and he’ll go to ground.” Another possibility frightened me: “He may retaliate against me by attacking my family again.”
Mr. Slade regarded me with exasperation. “Then tell me what you think we should do.”
Despite my terror, I didn’t wanted to go home empty-handed, to face my family’s disappointment and admit that I was neither as brave nor capable as I had purported to be. I confess that I hoped to impress Mr. Slade, for what else did I have to offer him beyond my willingness to risk my life in his service?
“I must accept the invitation,” I said. Mr. Slade exclaimed in protest, but I told him, “When the carriage arrives, I will go where it takes me. You and the police can follow. I will lead you to the criminal.”
26
DUSK DESCENDED UPON BRUSSELS AS I STOOD WAITING OUTSIDE the Hotel Central. Lights shone from streetlamps and crowded cafes along the boulevard. People strolled; carriages escorted by liveried footmen sped past me. The sky glowed lavender; the mild air sparkled. Lively orchestral music drifted from the park, while I shivered in my plain cloak and bonnet. The evening ahead of me spread like a black abyss from which I might never emerge. How I regretted persuading Mr. Slade that I should accept this invitation! Too soon would I venture within reach of the hands that had instigated murder. I longed to dash into the hotel and hide, but the church bells rang the hour of six o’clock. A black carriage drawn by black horses stopped at the hotel. The driver stepped down and approached me.
“Mademoiselle Brontë?” he said.
He wore a black cape, and a black hat obscured his face. I nodded. The presence of Mr. Slade and the police, waiting in carriages parked along the street, did not ease my trepidation. The driver opened the carriage door. Compelled by the momentum of the events that had led up to this instant, I stepped into the carriage and sat. The driver shut the door, enclosing me in darkness. His whip cracked. The carriage began to move amidst such racketing wheels and clattering hooves that I couldn’t determine whether Mr. Slade and the police were following. I tried to open the windows to look, but I found them fastened shut. I rattled the door; it was locked. I was trapped in the vehicle, which gathered speed and bore me towards an unknown fate.
The carriage veered sharply around corners. The driver seemed determined to evade pursuit. Our route comprised many twists and turns through the city. Motion and fear engendered nausea as I braced myself for a collision. I heard water flowing and felt the carriage rise, then descend, crossing a bridge over the river. I smelled rotting fish in the quayside market. But I soon lost all sense of direction. I prayed that Mr. Slade and the police would be able to keep up with me.
On and on we sped. The city noises faded; clattering cobblestones gave way to rutted earth; I smelled damp soil and fetid marsh. Perhaps two hours passed before the carriage abruptly stopped. Silence rang in my ears. My fear congealed into a cold sickness. I heard the driver climb down from his perch, and his footsteps approaching. The door opened, and lantern light diffused around his figure, which blocked my view of what was outside. He handed me a soft, dark cloth.
“Bandezvous les yeux,” he said.
I recalled that M. LeDuc had gone blindfolded to meet his master. Now I must do the same. With unsteady fingers I tied the cloth over my eyes. The driver pulled me from the carriage into the night. Through the utter darkness that shrouded me I heard wind whispering through trees and insects shrilling. Hands grasped me and propelled me forward. Two pairs of footsteps accompanied mine as I stumbled on broken flagstones. My unseen escorts never spoke. I gasped with terror, on the brink of fainting.
Was Mr. Slade near? I almost called out his name. Would the criminal guess we meant to trap him? If so, would Mr. Slade rescue me, or would this journey end in catastrophe? Death had become a clear, immediate danger rather than a vague threat in the distant future.
My escorts led me up a flight of stairs. A door creaked open, and the hush of an interior space surrounded me. I breathed stale, musty air. Our footsteps rang on a stone floor. The door closed behind us with a heavy, echoing thud, and my heart sank, for I feared I was locked in a place where Mr. Slade could not reach me. Finally my escorts and I halted. I smelled savory food odors and the same exotic scent that had perfumed the invitation. My escorts seated me in a chair, and their footsteps receded.
“Good evening, Miss Brontë,” said a man’s voice that was quiet, low-pitched, suave, and foreign. “You may remove your blindfold now.” He blurred his consonants in an odd, musical accent that I could not place.
I pulled off the blindfold. I was sitting at the end of a long table lit by candles. Before me lay a meal of soup, roast fowl, potatoes, vegetables, bread, cheese, and a tart, served on flowered china and accompanied by ornate silver, wine in a crystal goblet, and a linen napkin. The room was large, the windows covered in tattered red velvet, the walls hung with faded tapestries that depicted mounted hunters pursuing stag in a forest. The coffered ceiling was festooned with
spiderwebs. But where was the man who had just spoken?
“Your presence does me an honor,” he said. “A thousand thanks for accepting my invitation.”
His voice emanated from behind a lattice screen at the far end of the table. He could see me through the lattice, but I could not see him.
“Who are you?” I said in a quavering voice. “Why did you bring me here?”
He laughed—a hushed, silvery sound that prickled my skin. “All in good time, my dear Miss Brontë. First you must please eat.”
Fear clenched my stomach into a knot that spurned food. None was set before him: He intended to remain hidden while watching me. I fought an urge to run. If Mr. Slade and the police were near, I must wait for them to capture my host and rescue me. If they had lost track of me during that wild ride, then I was on my own, I knew not where, at the mercy of a criminal. I lifted my spoon, dipped it into the soup, and pretended to sip the steaming liquid.
“The philosophers of my kingdom believe that one’s fortune can be read in the face,” said my invisible host. “Will you allow me to tell you what I see in yours, Miss Brontë?”
His voice possessed a strange quality that calmed me as though I’d drunk a soporific, and it inclined me to let him lead the talk where he wished. I nodded.
“I see intelligence, courage, and honesty,” he said. “I see kindness, loyalty, faith, and a struggle between fear and will, desire and caution, in your beautiful eyes. The ravages of suffering accompany the strength of spirit. The future promises you danger, adventure, sorrow, and happiness.”
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been susceptible to flattery at such a time, but the power of the fortuneteller strengthened his hold over me. However, I was not yet so beguiled that I forgot my own purposes. “Now that you have appraised me, might I see you and read your character and fortune?” Now that I was almost face to face with evil, I wanted to look it in the eye.
Again he laughed, as though pleased by my wits even while he mocked me. “Ah, Miss Brontë, you must earn the privilege.”
The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 21