The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  The Queen’s chief lady-in-waiting came beside me. She was the Duchess of Norfolk, a woman whose elegant dress and poise intimidated me. Now she smiled at me in a friendly, conspiratorial fashion.

  “Don’t feel that you’re to blame, Miss Brontë,” she said. “The fault is Her Majesty’s. She is prone to spoiling Bertie. How can anyone expect him to learn good behavior when she constantly rewards him for bad?” The Duchess shook her head, which was crowned by an upswept mass of yellow hair and a wide-brimmed hat laden with flowers. “I fear he will grow up to be the worst tyrant that England has ever known.”

  “You are too kind, Your Grace,” I murmured.

  “Oh, there’s no need for such formality between traveling companions,” she said. “Please call me Mathilda. May I call you Charlotte?”

  “Certainly,” I said.

  She chatted with me, attempting to put me at ease and make me feel welcome. I was grateful to her and to Captain Innes, who had saved Bertie and spared me the ruin that would have followed had any harm come to the boy. Yet I remembered that someone among the royal household was Kuan’s accomplice. Until I knew who, I dared trust no one.

  While on this exhilarating journey, I had not forgotten those dear to me whom I’d left behind. I often wondered how Papa, Anne, Emily, and Branwell were faring in my absence. I judged that my pretense of cooperating with Kuan would protect them from him, and that I was the only one in danger. I remembered the parsonage as a haven of tranquillity.

  How wrong was I!

  I present my sister Emily’s account of events at home during the night I spent aboard the royal yacht:

  The Journal of Emily Brontë

  I dreamed I was chasing a golden book which flew on golden wings and gave off a splendid, unearthly golden light. It was the book I longed to write, and unless I caught it, I never would write it. Down a dark, winding tunnel I ran, while the book flitted just out of my reach. It disappeared around a curve, and suddenly a loud, rapping noise startled me. I awakened standing in the front hall at home: I had sleep-walked from my bed. The noise was a knocking at the door.

  Anne came down the stairs, saying, “It’s after midnight. Who could be calling so late?” Fear resounded in her voice as she answered her own question: “No one who can mean us any good.”

  But I was so drowsy that I forgot the dangers that threatened the household. I could still see the golden book; I heard its wings fluttering outside. I started towards the door. I heard Anne call Papa, and both of them hastening after me. Before they could stop me, I unlocked the door and opened it. Three men burst across the threshold. Anne gave an alarmed cry.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Papa demanded of the men. “Who are you?”

  The tallest of the three held a pistol, which he aimed at Papa. “Raise your hands,” he said. “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot you.”

  His speech told me he hailed from the upper social strata of England, but I was too confused to observe more about him. I could neither speak nor move.

  Papa stood frozen for a moment; then his hands crept skyward. The man pointed the gun at Anne, who also lifted her hands as she edged close beside Papa.

  “If it’s money you want, we haven’t much,” Papa said, “but I’ll give it to you if you’ll only go and leave us unharmed.”

  “Be quiet,” ordered the man with the gun.

  My dream dissipated like mist in the wind. Shocked alert, I realized that I had let evil into our house. “No!” I screamed. “Get out!”

  One of the other men was near me, and I flew at him in outrage. He grabbed my arms. As I howled and kicked his shins and we struggled together, horrified exclamations came from Anne and Papa. Hysteria filled me: I fought harder. The third man leapt to his comrade’s assistance. Together they pinned my arms behind my back. The man with the gun seized Anne and jammed its barrel against her throat.

  “Be still, or she dies,” he told me.

  Anne’s mouth gaped with silent terror. Papa said, “Emily, please. Do as he says.”

  My mind at last absorbed the idea that the man would kill Anne unless I obeyed him. Fear drained the resistance from my muscles.

  The man with the gun ordered Anne: “Light a lamp.” She obeyed, her hands trembling. The lamp illuminated the men, who were all dressed in dark clothes, their hats shading vicious faces. One kept hold of me; the other bolted the door. He then snatched the lamp and roved around the house, while the man with the gun held us paralyzed. Soon he returned and said, “There’s nobody else here.”

  Branwell must have sneaked out to the Black Bull Inn while we slept. Luck had favored him for once in his miserable life.

  “These three will do.” The gunman told Papa, “Show us to the cellar.”

  Papa reluctantly unbarred and opened the cellar door, beyond which a dark staircase led beneath the house.

  “All of you go down,” ordered the gunman.

  We went in single file, Papa first, Anne next, then the man with the lamp. My captor propelled me after them. The gunman followed close behind. None of us called for help; the village was too far away for anyone there to hear us. As we descended, the narrow stairwell enclosed me. I breathed the dank odor of earth and experienced the suffocating sensation that the very idea of captivity provokes in me. I suppressed an urge to fight my way back above ground. We reached the cellar, a room whose walls are made of stone and earth, in which my family rarely sets foot. The intruders flung Papa, Anne, and me on the floor amidst the odds and ends that had accumulated there over the years. They backed up the stairs.

  Papa said, “Please have mercy.” His voice wavered. Anne and I huddled together; she moaned, and my terror choked me. “Please let us go.”

  “Keep still,” said the gunman.

  He and his comrades vanished through the door and banged it shut. The cellar was immersed in darkness. I heard the bar drop into place. Then there was silence, except for our breathing.

  “This must be another in the same series of troubles that have plagued us,” said Papa.

  “There can be no doubt. I sense the hand of the same villain at work,” Anne said mournfully. “I had hoped that the danger from him was past; but alas, it seems that it is not.”

  “But why would he have us imprisoned in our own home?” Papa said. “And for how long do these men intend to keep us here?”

  Anne made no reply. The suffocating sensation constricted my chest. Trapped in the subterranean darkness, I gasped for air.

  “They can’t lock us up forever,” Papa said, as if trying to reassure himself as well as Anne and me. “People in the village will notice our absence. They’ll come to investigate. They’ll rescue us.”

  The cold, damp gloom seethed with our horrified thoughts of what might happen to us in the meantime. I heard muffled voices from above: The intruders were still in the house.

  Anne said, “Branwell is bound to come home eventually.”

  We knew better than to expect deliverance from that drunken, hapless, opium-besotted wreck. My heart thudded with my craving to be free. I hurtled blindly up the stairs, tripping on them and falling on my hands and knees, crawling until I reached the top. I beat my fists against the door.

  “Let me out!” I screamed.

  No one answered; the door remained shut. I fought until my hands were bloody, screamed until my throat was raw. Finally, in a state of despair and exhaustion, I slid down the stairs. Anne held me and murmured soothing words as I wept. I wept for my lost liberty, for the book I would never write.

  “If this is happening to us,” Papa said in a voice of dawning dread, “then what has become of Charlotte?”

  35

  THE REMAINDER OF THE VOYAGE TO SCOTLAND PASSED WITHOUT incident. The Queen and Prince Consort kept Bertie by them, relieving me of his irksome care; I had only the well behaved Princess to amuse. If there was danger on the royal yacht, I saw no sign of it. Indeed, I felt safer than I had since before Isabel White’s murder. Thirty-seven peaceful
hours after setting sail, we arrived at Aberdeen on 7 September. Carriages and horses that had been shipped to Scotland ahead of time conveyed us to the new royal estate at Balmoral.

  The Queen was as popular in Scotland as at home. Along our way, the Scots turned out to greet her. The Queen, Prince Consort, and their two elder children rode in an open carriage at the head of our procession. Crowds cheered them uproariously. The entrance to each village was decorated in the Queen’s honor with a triumphal arch made of barley or wheat sheaves, flowers, evergreens, or stags’ heads. The day was a whirlwind of happy faces, voices shouting greetings in a strange dialect, music from bagpipes, speeches by local gentry, and guns firing salutes. Riding in a carriage with the Queen’s other attendants, through a landscape of farms and distant, snow-capped peaks, I felt myself part of a grand, historic spectacle. In the joy of our reception, I was temporarily distracted from the horrific events that had brought me to this very place.

  We reached Balmoral to find a Scottish Regiment’s Guard of Honor waiting at attention. Balmoral, located on the River Dee, on the eastern side of the lofty Cairngorm Mountains, comprised ten thousand acres of fields, woods of towering birch and pine trees, and meadow. The Forest of Ballochbuie abutted its northern border; on the south rose the dark crags of Loch-na-gar. The pretty white castle had many turrets and gables, gingerbread trim, an ancient square tower surmounted by a battlemented parapet, and a glass conservatory. It was surrounded by expansive gardens that sloped towards the river in a series of natural terraces.

  Inside the castle was a hall paved with Dutch tiles; a broad staircase led to the upper floors. The rooms were furnished like a grand country house, with chintz upholstery and curtains; they were fewer and smaller than I’d expected, insufficient for the royal family and entourage. The servants and attendants—Mr. Slade, Lord Unwin, and other Foreign Office agents among them—were quartered in neighboring cottages. I had a tiny chamber upstairs in the castle, near the children’s nursery and the Queen’s chambers. The gentlemen of the household had rooms above us; the ladies-in-waiting below. After lunch in the crowded dining room, I walked behind the royal family on an inspection of the estate. Not until that evening did I have a chance to speak with Slade.

  Local citizens staged a celebration for the royal family. A huge bonfire was lit upon Craig Linne. Fireworks spangled the sky above Balmoral. We gathered on the terrace to watch. Bertie and Vicky jumped up and down, squealing with excitement at the glowing streamers, rosettes, and exploding bursts of colored stars. Rockets boomed, echoing off the mountains. Guards, courtiers, and ladies-in-waiting cheered. The Queen and Prince Consort smiled happily. I stood apart from the others, an interloper. My presence could only remind the Queen of the threat that haunted her and spoil her enjoyment. Presently, Mr. Slade appeared at my side.

  “Is all well with you, Miss Brontë?” he said.

  “For the time being,” I said.

  My senses quickened with the delight that his presence always caused me. I lifted my eyes to the distant heights, where the bonfire’s flames danced in the wind. Smoke and gunpowder scented the air.

  “I’ve been inspecting the estate,” said Mr. Slade. “So have the twelve constables sent from London. We found no signs of trespassers or anything else suspicious.”

  “I am relieved to hear that,” I said.

  All through the journey, despite its many diversions, I had been tense with waiting to see him again. Yet so much time had passed since we’d been alone together, so many things had happened, and we seemed reverted to strangers.

  “Would I be correct to assume that no one has yet approached you on behalf of Kuan?” Mr. Slade’s tone was cautious.

  “You would,” I said, uneasy because I thought Mr. Slade must be remembering that night in Penzance, when I’d spoken in defense of Kuan’s motives. Did he still wonder if the Chinaman had compromised my loyalty to him and my country? “Had anyone approached me, I would have sought you out and informed you immediately.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Slade said, although doubt tinged his voice.

  I compelled myself to look directly at him, lest my avoidance of his gaze provoke further suspicion. The fireworks illuminated his face. On it I saw shadows cast by weariness; the burden of his responsibilities, and his vigilant attention to duty, had taken their toll on him. His expression combined concern for me with uncertainty as to where we stood with each other. I thought I perceived in him a wish to regain the comradeship we’d shared. Here, in the lofty altitude and fresh, clear air of Scotland, my time in Cornwall seemed but a fading nightmare. Distance had weakened Kuan’s spell over me; I could scarcely credit that I had ever sympathized with him. Mr. Slade was once more the primary object of my regard.

  As our eyes met, the doubt in his eyes subsided; he smiled. His hand clasped and held mine; I enjoyed a warm, glad certainty that nothing could defeat us. The sky dazzled in a booming explosion of red, orange, and gold cartwheels. The audience exclaimed, and the children danced with delight. My happiness was such that I knew it could not possibly last.

  Events were to prove me sadly correct.

  The celebration soon ended. The bonfire burned out; the last sparkle of fireworks faded. The royal party retired to the castle. Slade went off to his cottage, and I tucked the children into their beds. The Queen and Prince Consort came to bid them goodnight. I walked the corridor, allowing the family their privacy, and there I met Captain Innes, the valiant soldier who had averted the crisis at sea.

  “Just checking to see that everyone is safe,” he said, lowering his cheerful, hearty voice to a loud whisper and walking beside me.

  “Everyone is well, thank you,” I said.

  We reached the landing that overlooked the entrance hall. Dim light from a few lamps shone there; laughter drifted up to us from the chambers of the ladies-in-waiting. Captain Innes signaled me to halt, and his voice rumbled softly against my ear: “Mr. Kuan sends his greetings.”

  Shock assailed me. This was the moment I had been dreading. The kindly, jovial Captain Innes was Kuan’s accomplice, bearing the summons to enact my part in his evil scheme. “Why . . . how . . . ?” was all I could say.

  Captain Innes made a rueful face. “Got myself into debt at one of Mr. Kuan’s gambling clubs. Couldn’t pay. Had to agree to do him a favor instead. He’d have killed me otherwise. But enough of that. You and I will take the children the night after tomorrow.”

  I looked around with some notion of rushing to tell Mr. Slade that the accomplice had revealed himself to me, but Captain Innes seized my wrist, preventing my flight. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Changed your mind about your arrangement with Mr. Kuan? Well, hear me out before you think of reneging on him. He has men holding your family prisoners as we speak. He’ll set them free after you bring him the children. Unless you do as I say, they’ll die.”

  Horror gained ascendancy over all other emotions as I grasped Kuan’s motive. He had never trusted me as fully as I thought; he was too clever to assume that I was firmly under his sway. He knew I would do anything for my family’s sake—he had elicited that fact during his interrogation of me. And now he had taken my loved ones hostage to guarantee my obedience.

  “Do you understand, Miss Brontë?” An edge of steel cut through Captain Innes’s cheerful voice.

  “Please don’t let him hurt them,” I said, gasping with terror.

  “Their lives are in your hands,” Captain Innes said. I struggled to break free of him, but he held tighter to my wrist. “Here’s the plan. Before you put the children to bed the night after tomorrow, give them each a few drops of this in their cocoa.”

  He lifted my hand, placed a vial in my palm, and closed my fingers around it. “It’s laudanum. They’ll sleep so soundly, nothing will waken them. You wait up for me. I’ll come to the nursery after everyone else is asleep. We’ll carry the children out of the castle. Understood?”

  Captain Innes’s usual pleasant smile had become a ghastly caricature.
Desperation burned in his twinkling eyes. Fright and helplessness compelled me to nod in spite of myself, as I realized that I must either commit a terrible crime or doom those that I loved best.

  “Should you be tempted to tell tales and upset Mr. Kuan’s plan,” Captain Innes said, “just think of your family.”

  Two maids approached us along the passage. Captain Innes let go my wrist, stepped back from me, and bowed with gallant, false courtesy. “Good night, Miss Brontë.”

  36

  A WAVE OF DREAD CRASHED OVER ME. THE FLOOR UNDER MY FEET seemed to give way, and I clung to the balustrade for fear that I would fall and be shattered on the tiles below the landing. Rapid gasps drained the breath from me as Captain Innes’s commands echoed in my ears. I thought I would die—and well I might have, but the Queen and Prince Consort emerged from the nursery, and I was forced to compose myself.

  Her Majesty said, “We shall see you in the morning, Miss Brontë.”

  Clutching the laudanum vial hidden in my hand, I slunk past her and the Prince Consort, not daring to look them in the eyes lest they read in mine what had transpired. I felt a powerful impulse to confess, but Kuan’s threat held my tongue. I slipped into the nursery.

  Vicky, Bertie, and Alfred lay asleep in their beds. I put out the lamp, then crumpled into a chair. Moonlight silvered their fair heads as I listened to their quiet, steady breathing. Mortal sickness permeated me. Kuan had decreed that I must choose between sacrificing these innocents or my own beloved kin. An involuntary sob rose in my throat. What was I to do?

  Sometimes, in the midst of trouble, the mind conceives ideas that it never would on saner occasions. I began to think that perhaps Kuan could be appeased, and his goals attained, without harm to anyone. Sometime during the long, wakeful night, I conceived an audacious plan.