Shaky with anticipation, I descended the stairs. In the foyer Mr. Slade paced. His black evening clothes and unruly hair gave him a look of raffish elegance. When he spied me halfway down the stairs, I saw the surprised admiration that I had hoped to see in his eyes, but as I nervously smiled, his countenance turned aloof.
“Shall we go?” he said indifferently.
He neither looked at me nor spoke during our carriage ride through London. We alighted in Belgrave Square, outside a magnificent mansion. We joined the splendidly attired gentlemen and ladies parading up to the doors, from which emanated violin music. My hand trembled on Slade’s arm, yet I wasn’t quite so nervous as on the night at the opera with George Smith. The finery I wore clothed me like armor; having a mission to accomplish fortified my courage. Inside the vast ballroom, we were engulfed by a horde of guests. A crystal chandelier blazed. Mirrored walls magnified the room and the crowd; a roar of voices and laughter echoed over the music from the orchestra.
“We must find the prime minister,” Mr. Slade said. “Let’s dance. That will allow us a view of everyone.”
The orchestra commenced a waltz. Before I could protest that I did not know how to dance, Mr. Slade had led me out on the floor. At first I stumbled, but then I found myself caught up in the music, waltzing effortlessly. The lights, the dancers, and their reflections spun around me. Mr. Slade’s face was the single clear image in the blur of color and motion. His gaze scanned the room; but as we whirled together, his eyes met mine, briefly at first, then for longer intervals. His frown signaled reluctance to behold me; yet he did, as if unable to prevent himself. My heart was beating fast. Did Mr. Slade draw me closer? Did his hand tighten on mine?
Just when I thought I would faint from intoxication, Mr. Slade said, “There is the prime minister.”
He hurried me from the dance floor to a cluster of people. At their center was a man in his fifties whose massive head and broad shoulders seemed too heavy for his short, frail body. His face was unwholesomely pale, its skin masking prominent bones. Mr. Slade maneuvered us through his entourage to his side.
“My lord,” Mr. Slade said. The prime minister turned to us, his eyes shrewdly inquisitive. “I am John Slade, and this is Miss Charlotte Bronte. May we have a word with you?”
Lord John Russell had been born to wealth and privilege, but he embraced modern ideas and belonged to the Whig Party, which represented the interests of businessmen and opposed the Tory royalists. He had distinguished himself by introducing the famous Reform Bill that extended voting rights and shifted power from the landed aristocracy to the men of commerce. Its passage had won him enormous popular acclaim. He had ascended to the supreme post of prime minister, but his two-year tenure had been plagued by Chartist insurrection, worsening poverty and violence in Ireland, and the threat that revolution on the Continent would spread to England. Now he cast an uninterested glance at me, then looked Mr. Slade up and down. He seemed ready to brush us off without a reply.
“This concerns Isabel White,” Mr. Slade said.
The prime minister’s face blanched paler; his throat contracted. “I do not know anyone by that name.” His voice was incongruously affected, mincing, and uncertain for a man of his status. “Excuse me.” He turned and fled, ignoring the stir that his abrupt departure created.
“Come,” Mr. Slade said, grabbing my hand. “If he gets away, we may never have another chance at him.”
We hastened in pursuit across the dance floor. We followed Lord John Russell down a winding staircase and outside to a garden. Trees arched between the star-jeweled sky and the garden’s brick paths and flowerbeds. The lighted ballroom windows cast their radiance over all. The air was redolent with the smells of flowers and cesspools. I gasped, breathless from running. We caught up with the prime minister near a pond centered by a marble statue of Aphrodite. The prime minister faced Mr. Slade with jaw thrust out and fists clenched.
“Isabel sent you?” he demanded. “Well, you can tell her that I’ll have nothing more to do with her. And unless you leave these premises at once, I’ll have you imprisoned for trespassing!”
He must have thought we were in league with Isabel and her master, and he had run to avoid public exposure. The same realization flashed across Mr. Slade’s face. “Isabel didn’t send us,” he said. “I’m an agent of the Crown, employed by the Foreign Office.”
The prime minister shook his massive head, glowering at us. “I’ll believe none of your filthy lies. Go to the devil!”
In desperation I cried, “Please, my lord, we mean you no harm. We’ve come to help you.”
He turned to me in surprise, as though wondering how such an obviously insignificant person would dare to entreat him.
“Isabel White has been murdered,” I hurried on. “We believe that the same man who forced you to serve him is responsible. His henchmen tried to abduct me and nearly killed my brother. Isabel claimed that he has launched a plot that threatens the kingdom. Our only chance to stop him is to band together.”
Lord Russell’s hands slowly unclenched; he regarded me with shock. “Isabel was murdered? How did it happen?”
I was filled with relief that he appeared ready to listen, and amazement at my own boldness. I recounted the details of Isabel’s death; then Mr. Slade described the murder of the merchant Isaiah Fearon. As he told about discovering that Isabel was a courier between radical societies and her master who abetted them, the prime minister took on the aspect of a man beholding the ruin after a siege of a city.
“How did you connect me to all this?” he said.
I explained what we had read in the book Isabel had sent me. Now Lord John Russell staggered over to a marble bench and sat down heavily.
“Then it’s true that an intimacy with Isabel put you in thrall to her master?” Mr. Slade asked.
Lord Russell nodded, in evident relief at confessing what he must have kept a dark secret. “It all began in the year 1844,” he said. “I was battling the Tory opposition to grant civil rights to the Irish and regulate the factories. My wife was gravely ill. I had invested money in ventures that proved unsound, and I lost a fortune. I was forced to borrow heavily to cover my expenses. I became so distraught I could not rest. I took to roaming the town at night, in search of a diversion. One evening I found myself in a gaming club. It was there that I met Isabel.”
Shadows like bruises obscured the prime minister’s face; the gay music from the house mocked his unhappiness. “She was a hostess at the club. Ordinarily, I would never consort with a woman of her kind. But Isabel was beautiful. I was lonely and vulnerable and smitten.”
Here was verification of the tale in Isabel’s diary, I thought, glancing at Mr. Slade. But his attention remained focused on Lord John Russell.
“I continued to meet Isabel, at disreputable taverns and lodgings,” the prime minister went on. “Eventually I began to tell her my troubles, as I suppose many men do with their mistresses.” He grimaced in self disgust. “She said she knew someone who could give me financial assistance. At first I refused, for I knew the money would come with strings attached. But as I neared the verge of financial ruin and a mental breakdown, Isabel’s repeated offers grew more tempting. One night she brought me five hundred pounds from the man she called her master. I accepted it, as I did further payments.”
His posture withered with shame; I pitied him.
“What was asked of you in exchange?” Mr. Slade said quietly.
“Nothing at first,” Lord John Russell said. “I severed my relations with Isabel in 1845, when I took my wife to seek medical advice in Edinburgh. My financial position improved, and I thought myself rid of problems. But then…” His expression turned doleful. “Early in 1847-some six months after I became prime minister-Isabel waylaid me outside the Houses of Parliament. She told me that her master ordered me to pay him ten thousand pounds. I was horrified. I said I could not and would not pay. But she said that unless I did, my wife would be told of my adultery. My
wife was still in poor health, and the shock might have killed her. Therefore, I did an unpardonable thing.
“At the time I was responsible for the Treasury and funds ear-marked for relief efforts in Ireland. From those I stole ten thousand pounds to pay Isabel’s master. Yet his demands did not end there. Soon Isabel told me that he wanted me to ensure that certain ships left England without inspection or interference.”
“Which ships?” Mr. Slade said in a tone of controlled eagerness.
“I don’t recall, but they belonged to various trading firms,” Lord John Russell said. “They all were bound for the Far East.”
“What was their cargo?” Slade asked.
“I preferred not to know. I deduced that they conveyed Englishwomen to be sold to wealthy Oriental men. I told Isabel to inform her master that I refused to aid an illegal, immoral trade. But she said that he had spies at the Treasury, and he knew how I had obtained the money I had paid him. And unless I let the ships pass unimpeded, her master would expose me as an embezzler. The scandal would ruin my political career.”
These, then, were the threats by which her master had subjugated the prime minister. Greed, poor judgment, and fear can weaken the most powerful of humanity.
“I had no choice but to obey. But since you’ve told me that Isabel’s master finances radical societies, I fear that the ships had a purpose even more harmful than I believed.” Lord John Russell’s pallid face looked ghastly ill. “He must intend to disrupt order in Asia and undermine British dominance there, as he has in Europe. His ships must have carried information, troops, and weapons to confederates overseas.”
Mr. Slade nodded. I wondered if guns manufactured by Joseph Lock had comprised part of the ships’ secret cargo. Perhaps he, too, had been forced to serve Isabel’s master and had provided the guns against his will. Had he later discovered the treasonous purpose for which the guns were meant, then killed himself rather than face exposure? Perhaps Isaiah Fearon had transported the guns, and died because he was a link in the chain that joined Isabel White and Joseph Lock to the man who had ruled them all. I recalled Isabel’s claim that the villain aspired to the power of kings.
“Who is this man that coerced you?” Mr. Slade urgently asked.
The prime minister shook his head. “I never met him. I don’t know his name. Isabel refused to tell me. She was my only link with him.”
And the deaths of Isabel, Lock, and Fearon had broken the chain. Slade said, “Can you direct me to the gaming club where you met Isabel?”
Lord John Russell said he couldn’t recall, for he had tried to forget those troubled times. Animosity sharpened his expression. He rose stiffly and said, “I could be hanged for what I’ve done. If you tell your superiors what I’ve said, I shall deny everything. My word should easily prevail against yours, and you’ll find yourself in graver trouble than I.” Yet he couldn’t hide his terror that his deeds would come to light.
It was clear that Mr. Slade perceived the advantage he held over the prime minister, for he said, “Miss Bronte and I will protect your secrets, under one condition.”
A dour, raspy chuckle emanated from Lord John Russell. “You would bargain with me? Your audacity is remarkable.” He made as if to leave, but ventured only a few steps before reluctantly pausing.
“Should Isabel’s master contact you and demand more favors, inform me at once,” Mr. Slade said. “Determine who owns any ships you’re asked to give safe passage from England and what cargo they carry. Help me identify and apprehend the villain, and I will shield you from exposure and punishment.”
Lord Russell considered. “If you receive an anonymous letter addressed to you at the Foreign Office, you should heed it,” he finally said, then left us.
“There seems little more to be learned here,” Mr. Slade said. “We may as well go.”
Yet he did not move. He regarded me with a strange look that stirred a fluttering sensation in my breast. The trees and darkness isolated us from the crowd at the ball; our only companion was the marble Aphrodite, immobile and silent.
“Your speech to the prime minister carried the day,” said Mr. Slade, and I heard new respect and warmth in his voice. “I congratulate you.” He added gruffly, “I must also tell you how lovely you look tonight.”
Such a stir of pride and happiness arose in me that I could not answer. The night seemed to swell with a freshening breeze, the slow turning of the heavens, and the tide of hope that lapped at my heart.
I am no fanciful young maiden who believes that a summer eve harbors magic, or that a beautiful gown, a waltz, and a successful collaboration can influence destiny. But my relations with Mr. Slade altered that night, and in the days which followed, they continued altering, to my joy and hazard.
21
What transpired at the ball caused me such tumultuous emotion that I tossed in my bed that night, my mind awhirl; I then fell into dreams of waltzing with Mr. Slade. I awoke breathless with anticipation of what the day would bring.
When I went into the dining room and joined Mr. Slade and Kate at the breakfast table, he handed me two letters. “These came in the morning post.”
One letter was from Anne, the other from Emily. I opened Emily’s first, and as I read, consternation filled me. “Emily writes from Haworth. She’s left the Charity School. She gives no explanation. What can have happened?”
Mr. Slade’s grave expression said he feared that Emily had somehow compromised our inquiries. “What does Anne say?”
Her letter was even more disturbing, as her own words can attest. My dear Charlotte, I write in haste to convey important news. The day after the mysterious visitor came, Mr. Lock and I again dined together. He looked so much more haggard and preoccupied than usual that I was emboldened to ask him what was amiss. With unconvincing haste he attempted to assure me that all was well. When I confessed I had seen him arguing with a man last night, and asked him if it was this man who troubled him, his countenance went deathly pale. He swayed in his chair. Perspiration on his face glistened in the candlelight. I hurried to him and poured him a glass of wine, which he gulped. I blotted his forehead with a napkin, and he drew shuddering breaths as his color returned. As soon as he was able, he thanked me for my assistance and apologized for disturbing me. His courtesy while in distress increased my sympathy for Henry Lock. He seemed little more than a boy, and I had an urge to cradle him in my arms. Hesitantly, I suggested he tell me his worries, that perhaps I could help. There must be something about me that engages other people’s trust. Friends, employers, and total strangers have told me their woes. Now Henry Lock confided how he had tried to dissuade his elder brother Joseph from placing him in charge of the family gunworks, for he sensed that his brother had been compelled to retire against his will. Regardless, Mr. Joseph Lock announced his decision to his workers the very next day. A shudder passed through Henry Lock as he reached this point in his sad tale. “Joseph’s wife sent me a message to come home at once. When I arrived, she said he had locked himself in his office and she’d heard a shot.” He looked haunted, as though he were reliving his discovery. “I broke down the door and found Joseph slumped over his desk. His head lay in a pool of blood. The room smelled of gunpowder. The pistol had fallen from Joseph’s hand, onto the floor.” After murmuring my condolences, I ventured to ask why his brother had taken his life. Mr. Lock told me his brother had left no explanation, but a week after Joseph Lock’s death, he began to understand. “I was working late at the gunworks, reviewing the account books,” he told me. “It was after ten at night, and I was alone at my desk. Suddenly the man who came here yesterday stalked into the room. I asked him who he was and what he wanted. The man never gave his name, and to this day, I do not know it. He said, ‘I’m here to fetch the guns I ordered from Joseph Lock.’” A stir of excitement passed through me, for I sensed that I was about to hear something important. Henry Lock continued, “The man told me to unlock the warehouse. Then he walked out of my office as if he expected me
to follow and obey him. I ran after him, calling, ‘My brother is dead. I know nothing of your transaction with him. I must see some proof of it before I can give you any guns.’ “There were four other men standing by the warehouse. They grabbed me and threatened to beat me unless I cooperated. I watched helplessly as they carried out crates of guns and loaded them on a wagon. The men all climbed on the wagon and prepared to drive off. The leader told me that my brother had already been paid an agreed-upon price, and that I was bound to keep his bargain now that Joseph was dead. He told me he wanted hundreds of rifles, pistols, and cannons and he would come for them in two weeks. “I argued that those guns were more than the factory could produce in that time, and I called him a thief. I said I would report him to the law. But he said there were things that my brother wanted kept secret. He mentioned that one concerned a Miss Isabel White, and that this and other secrets would ruin not only Lock Gunworks but Joseph’s memory and my good name if they were made public.” Henry Lock exhaled in desolation. “I surmised that Joseph had committed improprieties with the childrens’ governess. But it was obvious that he’d done something else, something even more terrible, that had put him under this man’s power, and he’d bartered the guns to protect himself, our family, and the firm. I thought that if I honored the bargain, I could avert whatever disaster Joseph had feared. But when the two weeks were up and the men came for the guns, I had completed only half of them. That man came here yesterday to demand that I deliver the rest.” The candles burned low. Henry Lock, crumbling with despair, admitted that he feared that even should he be able to deliver the guns, the demands would never stop. His firm would go bankrupt, and his family would be destroyed. “Surely there’s some other recourse,” I said. “Perhaps your brother’s secret isn’t as dangerous as you’ve been led to believe. Have you any idea what it is?” He had none, he told me. He supposed he would never know the whole truth until the blackmailer made good on his threat and a scandal broke. Thinking of Mr. Slade, I mentioned I had a friend connected to the Crown who might be able to help him. But Henry Lock begged me not to involve my friend or anyone else. He knew his brother had broken the law, he said, and he could not allow his family to be punished for his sins. The wine in the glass he held trembled as his body shook with fear, but he proclaimed that he would endeavor to produce the guns and pray that the business would be resolved. I could not share his blind faith, for I believed Isabel White’s evil master was behind his troubles and would have no mercy on him. I determined on learning more, and the next day brought an opportunity. The children went on a holiday with friends. I was left with no duties and a great wish to escape the gloomy house, so I asked the coachman to drive me into Birmingham. There I noticed a man outside a tobacconist’s shop. I recognized his distinctive beaked nose and jutting chin. He was the man who had threatened Henry Lock. As he walked away, rash impulse seized me. I told the coachman to wait, and I hurried out of the carriage. Crowds around the shops blocked my view of the man, and I almost lost him. But I spied him passing the church and ran to catch up. We traversed districts that grew shabbier until the man turned down a dark, forbidding road. There, moldering tenements bordered a narrow cobblestone pavement. The man entered a dingy brick public house called Barrel and Shot. I peered cautiously through its window into a dim room. The man I’d followed sat drinking amidst others who looked to be crude, unemployed laborers. So occupied was I that I didn’t notice two men enter the street until they neared me. They were rough young scoundrels, their smiles malicious. They advanced on me, and fear caught my breath. “What in there was you so interested in?” the first man said, pointing towards the Barrel and Shot. I shook my head in mute terror. “Might be she was lookin’ for a man,” the other taunted. Nudging elbows, they exchanged sly glances and snickers replete with insinuation, then grabbed my arms. Panic assailed me. I struggled to free myself and pleaded for them to let me go. The men laughed, jeered, and propelled me along the road. I screamed for help and a constable strode towards us. Some blows from his stick sent my attackers fleeing. He inquired after my well-being, and I replied that I was unharmed and thanked him. The constable escorted me to my carriage, chastising me that this was no place for a lady. I took the opportunity to describe the man in the public house, Henry Lock’s tormentor, and asked, “Could you tell me who he is?” The constable said, “No, but he’s someone you’d best not associate with, I’m sure.” Yet I felt sure that the man in the public house is a link to the person responsible for Isabel White’s murder and Joseph Lock’s suicide, as well as the attacks on you, dear Charlotte. I regret that I was unable to discover his identity, and I hope for a chance to rectify my failure. Anne
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