“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 Bronte 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 and 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 be
haved. 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 with 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.”
All I could add was his assumed name and his description. I knew not where Mr. White was to be found. Of one thing was I certain: He would eventually find me.
“Then what will you do?” Ellen asked.
I knew I must do something, for the book had shown my situation to be much more serious than I had fathomed. That Isabel’s master had subjugated the prime minister signified that her murder and my own troubles were but superficial manifestations of a far-reaching conspiracy, and that the impending disaster must be of vast proportions.
“I must identify and locate Isabel’s master,” I said.
Ellen stared in astonishment. “You? Why, the very idea!” She giggled merrily. “Oh, this must be one of your jokes, for how could you attempt such a hazardous task on your own?”
I could not explain that my only protection against harm was to deliver Gilbert White to the authorities before he found me. Nor could I admit that I wished for revenge upon the man who’d tricked me. I felt a new strength, fueled by anger, and a great determination to bring about his downfall.
“I am not joking. Someone must prevent the disaster,” I said, “and who else is there but I?”
Exasperation colored Ellen’s features. “This is another of your ambitious schemes, then. You should nip it in the bud, or you’re sure to be disappointed.” Her admonition eroded my determination, for who was I to pit myself against a murderer who apparently had the prime minister under his power? “Remember how you wanted to be an author, and it never happened.”
After insisting that she believe this, I could hardly contradict her now. Still, she had reminded me that I had the talent to write a famous novel and thus achieve what no one had expected of me. I sat up as renewed self-confidence flowed through me like an invigorating tonic.
“I must at least try to find Isabel’s master,” I said, “for I am certain that everyone connected with Isabel is in danger from him, and I the most of all because I was her last companion. And I have her journal, which I believe he seeks because he thinks it reveals his secrets.”
“But how can you hope to succeed, when the journal gives no particulars about this mysterious individual?” Ellen asked.
After some thought, I said, “I shall work with the facts about Isabel that we’ve gleaned today. The Charity School she attended is a place to start.”
“It’s been many years since Isabel left the school,” Ellen said. “How can it have any bearing on her recent life?”
“Perhaps she kept in communication with the Reverend and Mrs. Grimshaw,” I said. “Perhaps she told them things that she didn’t tell her mother. Perhaps the school is part of the master’s evil business. Instead of returning home tomorrow, I will travel to Skipton.”
“Such a bold, drastic move!” With a gasp of horror, Ellen flung out her arms as if to restrain me. “My dear, you mustn’t! If the school is indeed associated with Isabel’s master, you could be walking straight into the lion’s den!”
“If it is, then it’s the last place he would expect me to go,” I pointed out. “I shall be safer in Skipton than at home.”
“But what would you do at the school?” Ellen demanded. “You can’t just walk in and start asking questions.”
; Indeed, I knew not how to go about obtaining facts from someone who might wish to hide them. Ellen and I argued: She chastised my impulsiveness and unladylike bravado, while I stubbornly upheld my opinions. At last Ellen sighed in weary frustration.
“I see that you won’t be dissuaded,” she said. “I have no choice but to go with you to Skipton.”
There ensued another argument, in which I tried to impress upon her the danger of the trip, while she swore to protect me. I grew strident in my refusal, and Ellen began to weep.
“If you don’t want me, and you insist on going alone, I’ll return home this very evening.” She began packing her trunk while sobbing into her handkerchief.
I was torn between shame at hurting Ellen and irritation at her for turning every dispute into a test of our friendship. But I didn’t relish the idea of confronting strangers at the Charity School alone. I capitulated, agreeing that we would journey together to Skipton on the morrow.
13
Time offers no invincible barrier against the dark forces of the past. New places sometimes possess aspects of places I thought to have left behind me forever; they evoke memories preferably forgotten. This misfortune befell me during my visit to the Charity School.
Ellen and I arrived in Skipton early in the afternoon of 22 July. Skipton is a market town located on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. Its ruined Norman castle overlooks the village through which we rode in a hired carriage. We journeyed some two miles into meadowland. The Charity School occupied a shallow valley, hidden from nearby farms by a birch forest. The path through this was too narrow for our carriage, so Ellen and I asked the driver to wait, then proceeded on foot.
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