The family consists of Mrs. Caroline Lock, who is the widow of Joseph Lock, her two sons-Harry and Matthew, aged seven and six-and Mr. Henry Lock, her brother-in-law. Mrs. Lock is a pale, haggard wraith. Her blue eyes are sunken and the effort of conversation seems to pain her. When we met, I caught the odor of spirits on her person. She spends all her time in her chamber, tended by her maid, who carries in trays of food and glasses of wine. The trays come out barely touched, the glasses empty.
My two pupils are both fair, sturdy, handsome lads; but oh, how obstreperous Master Harry is! During our first lesson he chattered constantly. When I told him to be quiet, he hurled his books out the window. Young Matthew never speaks at all, and his eyes are solemn. He wets his bed, as if he were a much younger child. But I suspect that he is more sad then feebleminded, and Harry more confused than evil. Their father’s death seems to haunt the entire household, and not the least of all Mr. Henry Lock.
Mr. Lock is a fair, slender man with a perpetually worried face. He manages the family gunworks and spends long days there. While the nursemaid gives the boys their supper, Henry Lock and I dine alone together (Mrs. Lock never joins us). We sit at opposite ends of the table in the elegant candlelit dining room. He always greets me politely, then retreats into his private thoughts. We nibble at the food, for which neither of us has much appetite; then he excuses himself and withdraws to the study on the top floor. I know he works very late, because the study is directly above my room, and I can hear him moving about.
A more troubled family I have seldom seen. The Locks’ melancholy might have depleted my own spirits, had I not a purpose to accomplish. With that purpose in mind, I ventured to the kitchen on the afternoon of my second day, on the pretext of begging some water to drink. The cook and the scullery maid were quite willing to gossip about Mrs. Lock’s grief and about her husband’s suicide. But before I could hear more than I already knew, the housekeeper came into the kitchen and scolded us for idle talk.
My subsequent attempts to obtain information from the servants met with evasion. I began to fear I would never learn why Mr. Lock took his own life, nor what was his connection to the murder of Isabel White. I doubted that I would ever glimpse her “master” or anyone associated with him-until tonight.
The hall clock chiming midnight roused me from a fitful doze. Then came a knock at the front door. As I wondered who called so late, I heard the door open, and Henry Lock say, his voice shrill with alarm, “What are you doing here?”
A man replied in menacing words that I could not discern. I crept from my room onto the landing and peered over the banister. Henry Lock stood at the open door. Beyond the threshold stood a man with a beaked nose, jutting chin, and ominous expression.
“I won’t,” Henry Lock said. “We’ve done enough for you. Go away and leave me alone!”
The man seized him by the collar. Henry Lock lurched and cried out, his hands splayed. The visitor murmured threats that were indistinguishable to me, yet struck fear into my heart.
“No!” I heard Henry Lock say; then: “Yes! Whatever you wish. Just please don’t-”
The visitor released him. He staggered backward. There was a last mutter from the visitor, whose shadowy figure withdrew. Henry Lock slammed the door, secured the bolt, and sagged against the wall, gasping. What had transpired between him and his caller? Does my wishful imagination convince me that the caller is an emissary of Isabel White’s evil master? I feel certain that dire peril threatens this house. I shall wait and watch for the opportunity to solve the mystery.
I hope you and Emily are well, and that your own inquiries are progressing.
With love,
Anne
Her letter engendered in me both fear and, at the same time, the hope that Anne had found a path that would lead to the truth. I know how much she craved independence and wanted to prove her worth, but how I regretted allowing her to go to Birmingham! Yet my anxiety concerning Anne was far less than that I felt for Emily.
Emily was never a fulsome correspondent; her letter was brief. She merely said that she had arrived at the Charity School and been taken in as a teacher. I didn’t discover what happened during her time there until after her death, when I read the following passages in her journal:
The Journal of Emily Bronte
Skipton, 10 August 1848.
The train carried me northwest, like a coffin speeding towards doom. The passengers in the carriage numbered more strangers than I had seen in years. With every passing mile, my heart yearned more desperately for home.
A thunderstorm coincided with my arrival at the Charity School, which was as forbidding as a ruined castle. I stood, wet and shivering, for some time at the door, my heart pounding while I fought an urge to flee. At worst there were evil criminals inside; at best, strangers to face. I summoned all my courage and knocked. When a maid answered, I forced myself to say, “I am in need of work. Might you need a teacher?”
My appearance must have convinced her that I was the correct sort of destitute gentlewoman, for she admitted me into the building. “Wait here. I’ll fetch the mistress.”
The blood coursing wildly through me blurred my vision of the place in which I found myself. I heard the voices of teachers lecturing and students reciting lessons. The frightening cacophony shrank my soul into a kernel of terror as a small, buxom, brassy-haired woman approached me.
The woman, Mrs. Grimshaw, introduced herself and scrutinized me with her sharp hazel eyes. Her figure was tightly corseted into a green paisley frock. The unnatural shade of her hair suggested henna dye. By her accent, she was clearly of common birth, pretending to a higher social station. “And you are?”
“Miss Emily Smith,” I whispered, remembering to give my false surname.
“What brings you ’ere?”
I stammered out my preconceived tale of having been a teacher at a distant school that had closed, leaving me with nowhere to go, as I had neither family nor friends. I thought Mrs. Grimshaw would surely notice that I lied, so unconvincing did I sound to myself. But she nodded and said, “What subjects did you teach?”
“Music,” I said.
She led me into a room with a piano. “Let me ’ear you play,” she ordered.
As I sat at the instrument, I felt all my terror of making a show of myself. For one panic-stricken moment, my mind could not recall a single bar of music. But somehow my hands played a hymn.
Either Mrs. Grimshaw didn’t notice my mistakes, or she cared not about them, for when I finished, she said, “You can begin giving lessons tomorrow.”
That I had gained a position at the school seemed more a grief than a triumph. A teacher named Miss Rathburn took me into the teachers’ residence, a low stone building divided into cells. Miss Rathburn is about forty years of age, willowy and tall; she has a queer habit of fondling her large bosom.
“You’ll share this room with me,” she said.
She then told me the hours for lessons, meals, prayer, and rest, but I scarcely listened. The tiny room appalled me; I could not bear to live in such close proximity with a stranger.
“Teachers have free run of the school,” Miss Rathburn said. “The only places off limits to everyone are the Grimshaws’ quarters and the old windmill.”
Then we went to supper. Some seventy girls occupied tables in the refectory, but they could have been hundreds, so loud were their shrill voices. I sat with the Reverend and Mrs. Grimshaw and the four other teachers. After the Reverend Grimshaw led a prayer, his wife introduced me to the school.
“Girls, this is Miss Smith, your new music teacher,” she said.
As I rose and all eyes fixed upon me, I almost fainted from embarrassment. When the meal commenced, every bite nauseated me. The teachers attempted to engage me in conversation, and I made brief, awkward replies. The girls glanced in my direction, whispering and giggling: Already I was an object of mockery, as I had been at other schools. At bedtime I lay awake while my chamber mate slept. Her breath fille
d the room; I heard the other teachers stirring in adjacent chambers. How I wept for the parsonage and the moors! In my sad state, how could I accomplish here what I had sworn to do?
At last I fell into exhausted slumber. I dreamed I was suffocating. I awoke to find myself screaming and thrashing and the other teachers gathered around me, staring in fright. They now treat me with the wary reserve accorded to people of questionable sanity, but my pupils display no such caution.
The leaders of the school are Abigail Weston and Jane Fell, both handsome, insolent girls of sixteen. They expend no effort at learning the piano, and when I correct their mistakes, they laugh at me. The other girls follow their example, but for one Frances Cullen. She is a plain, shy little thing, thirteen years old, the object of much teasing. With her I feel a sad kinship.
On my second evening at the school I craved solitude so much that I thought I would die of the need. I waited until everyone else was asleep, then slipped outside. It was a hot, windless night. A swollen moon spread a hazy glow over the school. Deep shadows cloaked the garden. Crickets chirped, and the perfume from flowers hung heavy in the air. I inhaled invigorating breaths of freedom as my beleaguered soul drew comfort from nature…
… until the Reverend Grimshaw emerged from his quarters. I hid behind an oak tree. He hurried past me and disappeared between the birches at the end of the garden. Jane Fell came out of the house and followed Grimshaw. The round stone tower of the windmill rose beyond the birches. Jane and the Reverend Grimshaw must have gone there, but what were they doing in that forbidden place? I wondered how Jane could roam about when all the other girls were locked in their rooms, and what business she had with the Reverend Grimshaw.
Perhaps their business concerned the matter I had come to investigate. I decided I must see what went on in the windmill, but then I heard the clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels, nearing the school. Suddenly Mrs. Grimshaw appeared in the courtyard. Her sharp eyes glinted in the moonlight, surveying the school, as though in search of trespassers. Fearing she would discover me, I crept back to my bed, certain there is something amiss here.
The next day Jane Fell was vanished from the school. When I asked where she had gone, Miss Rathburn said she’d taken ill in the night and her parents had fetched her home. Yet I had seen her looking in perfect health, and I could not help but wonder if whatever happened to Jane has any connection to the life or death of Isabel White. And perhaps I shall soon find out.
That afternoon, Mrs. Grimshaw called me into her office. She asked me, “Does your work suit you?”
I replied that it did, and I thanked her for her charity.
Mrs. Grimshaw preened. “Many women ’ave reason to thank us,” she said. “An’ some expresses their gratitude with donations.” She showed me an envelope that contained ten pounds. “We’ve just got this from a former pupil.”
She carelessly dropped the envelope on her desk, then bustled from the room, leaving me behind. I had the peculiar feeling that she wanted to see if I would take advantage of the opportunity to steal the money. At first I had no wish to steal, and no doubt that I must prove my good character or be expelled. But my thinking suddenly altered. Under ordinary circumstances I should leave the money where it was and show my virtue; yet this was not an ordinary school, and I was no ordinary teacher. Divining that Mrs. Grimshaw wanted something other than virtue from me, I slipped the envelope into my pocket.
Fearful anticipation gnawed at me all day. Had I passed her test? What was to come? Then, after evening prayers, Mrs. Grimshaw appeared at my side. “May I ’ave a word with you, Miss Smith?”
We went again to her office, she severe, I cowed and cringing. “This afternoon I showed you some money,” Mrs. Grimshaw said. “It was there when I left the room.” She pointed at the desk. “Do you see it?”
“No, ma’am,” I whispered, quaking as would any thief who feared punishment. My fear was real; I didn’t need to pretend.
“Nor do I,” Mrs. Grimshaw said. Her eyes gleamed, and a cruel smile curved her moist, full lips. “Whatever could ’ave become of the ten pounds?”
“I don’t know,” I said, though guilt at the lie undermined my show of innocence.
“Oh, but I think you do know.” Mrs. Grimshaw prowled around me, her footsteps trapping me in a circle. “I left you alone in this room with the money. Now it’s missing. An’ you’re the only person besides me that’s been ’ere all day.” She halted like a cat ready to pounce. “Empty your pockets,” she ordered.
Quailing from the menace in her eyes, I obeyed. Out came the envelope of money.
“Aha!” Mrs. Grimshaw exclaimed, snatching it from my hand. “Wretched thief! After we’ve fed an’ sheltered you and given you employment, you betray our trust!” Righteous indignation swelled her countenance; yet I perceived that my guilt gratified her. “I should throw you out!”
“No, please, don’t!” I said in sudden panic, as I began to think I’d misjudged the situation and would lose my position at the school. How could I then discover facts that might save my family? “I’ve nowhere to go!”
“I ought to turn you over to the law,” Mrs. Grimshaw said.
A vision of myself locked in prison horrified me. Gasping, I fell on my knees before Mrs. Grimshaw. “Have mercy. I beg you to forgive me.”
“But you must be punished.” That Mrs. Grimshaw relished my terror and humiliation was evident.
“Do to me what you will,” I said, “but please let me stay. I promise I’ll never steal again.”
“There is a way you can avoid punishment and prove you deserve to be kept ’ere,” Mrs. Grimshaw said with a show of reluctance.
“I’ll do anything,” I cried. “Anything you ask!”
Folding her arms, Mrs. Grimshaw beheld me, her shrewd gaze taking my measure. She nodded, and her smile turned conspiratorial. “We’ll just forget about your mistake. Quit your sniveling, and go to bed. Tomorrow you’ll do a special little task for me.”
I felt overwhelming relief that she had given me a second chance, and shame that I had been branded a criminal. “Thank you,” I whispered. As I fled the room, apprehension clutched my heart. I had put myself in the power of a woman whom I believed was up to no good, and what did she expect of me?
20
On the morning of my fourth day in London, I breakfasted with Kate in her spacious dining room. It was decorated in shades of yellow. Sun shone through the windows, and fresh flowers adorned the table. I wished I could absorb some of the brightness around me and enjoy the generous meal of eggs, breads, ham, and jellies, but I worried about Emily and Anne, and I had begun to fear that my presence in London was unnecessary.
At that moment Mr. Slade strode into the room. “Good morning,” he said casually, and sat at the table as though his sudden appearance were not remarkable.
I looked down at my plate, for fear he would see the joy that rose in me. Kate exclaimed happily, “My prodigal brother! To what do we owe the honor of your company?”
“There have been some new developments,” Mr. Slade said. “Please forgive me for leaving you uninformed so long, Miss Bronte. I’ve been investigating the prime minister through indirect channels, in vain. Lord John Russell has no apparent connection to Isabel White, Joseph Lock, or Isaiah Fearon. To discover his part in this business, we must ask him directly.”
“Lord Unwin has ordered us to stay away from the prime minister,” I reminded Mr. Slade. “Dare we disobey?”
He frowned as if he wished his superior to the devil. “We must, or lose a chance to acquire whatever facts Lord Russell may have about Isabel’s master.”
“How shall you approach him, when he’s occupied with government affairs day and night and surrounded by men who protect him from interruptions?” Kate asked.
Mischief glinted in Mr. Slade’s eye. “Lord John Russell plans to attend a certain event. And I have secured an invitation.”
He handed me a square of heavy, cream-colored paper. Pr
inted in elegant script, it read, “The Duke and Duchess of Kent request your presence at a ball.”
“The ball offers an opportunity for a chance encounter with the prime minister,” Slade said. “Miss Bronte, shall we go together?”
My first reaction was my usual, dire dread of social occasions. My second was anxiety concerning practical matters. As I sat tongue-tied, Slade said, “Have you some objection?”
Kate took the invitation from me, examined it, and cried, “The ball is tonight! My dear brother, Miss Bronte fears there’s not enough time for her to prepare.”
“The ball doesn’t start till nine o’clock,” Mr. Slade said to me. “Can you not be ready by then?”
I could not be ready ever, for I possessed nothing to wear. Kate flashed me a look of comprehension and said, “Miss Bronte will be ready.”
She whisked me upstairs to her chamber, where she laid out beautiful, shimmering silk frocks. “It’s fortunate that we’re nearly the same size. I shall happily lend you a ball gown.”
I was grateful to her, yet still apprehensive; what business had I in such fine raiment? Since bright colors and low necklines don’t become me, we selected a modest grey satin. That night, when I stood ready before the mirror, I thought I wouldn’t disgrace myself. The gown’s narrow bodice and flounced skirt lent me stature, and the emerald sheen of the fabric lit auburn lights in my hair, which Kate had dressed in fashionable style.
“Your eyes are as bright as diamonds,” Kate said fondly. “They’re all the adornment you need.” Then she leaned close and whispered: “Though he may seem unresponsive, don’t despair. Even the most broken heart can mend. Fate can work magic even on a man who has for years shunned romantic attachment.”
I saw my face blush redder, thinking that Kate had noticed my feelings towards her brother; yet I wondered at her remark. Did she mean that he had suffered a broken heart? And if so, who had been the object of his love?
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