The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte tsaocb-1

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Stop him!” Lord Unwin shouted.

  Captain Innes burst through the French doors with Mr. Slade and the agents in pursuit. He ran straight towards the children as they laughed and chased one another on the sunlit grass.

  “Vicky! Bertie! Alfred!” the Queen cried.

  She and her husband hurried to the doors. “My God!” exclaimed the Prince Consort. “Don’t let him near them!”

  Their voices rang across the garden. The children and ladies turned; they caught sight of Captain Innes fleeing Mr. Slade and the agents. The children’s laughter gave way to frightened shrieks as they realized that something was amiss. Panic scattered them and the ladies.

  Lord Unwin was on the terrace. He ordered the agents, “Draw your weapons!”

  They halted and shouldered their rifles. “Captain Innes! Stop or they’ll shoot!” Lord Unwin called, as the Queen, Prince, and I looked on in speechless horror.

  Captain Innes kept running. Bertie, crying and confused, veered into his path. The Queen screamed.

  Lord Unwin shouted, “Fire!”

  Mr. Slade shouted, “No!” as he ran. He was almost within reach of Captain Innes.

  Gunshots boomed. Captain Innes jerked; he gave a yowl of pain. His gait faltered and he crashed facedown on the grass. All was suddenly still. Everyone stood paralyzed-the Queen, Prince, and I at the doors; Lord Unwin on the terrace; Mr. Slade, the agents, the children, and ladies-in-waiting ranged around the lawn. At the center of the tableau lay Captain Innes’s prone figure. Blood from bullet wounds in his back spread crimson patches across his shirt.

  The Queen let out a moan. She and her husband rushed across the garden and gathered the children into their arms. Bertie began shrieking hysterically. A lady-in-waiting fainted; the others ran to her aid. Mr. Slade, Lord Unwin, the agents, and I clustered around Captain Innes. The agents trained their rifles on him in case he should move-but he did not.

  Mr. Slade crouched, felt Captain Innes’s pulse, and spoke to Lord Unwin in a tone sharp with accusation: “He’s dead.”

  The agents lowered their rifles. “Well,” Lord Unwin said, sounding dazed by the course of events and taken aback by Mr. Slade’s manner.

  I’d never before seen a man gunned down like a rampant beast. My mind noted his hand curled limp on the grass, his eye already glazed, his body reduced to soulless flesh. My emotions were many, but foremost was a sense that things had just progressed from bad to much worse.

  “You shouldn’t have given the order to fire,” Mr. Slade said as he stood and faced Lord Unwin. “You should not have killed him.”

  “You dare to criticize me? Who do you think you are?” Lord Unwin’s pale eyes blazed. “What should I have done? The man was a menace. He might have hurt the Crown Prince.” Lord Unwin gestured towards Bertie, whose cries shrilled loud while the Queen tried to soothe him. “He might have gotten away.”

  “I almost had him,” Mr. Slade pointed out, matching Lord Unwin’s fury. “We should have taken him alive.”

  All the animosity between the men had risen to the surface. I wanted to berate Lord Unwin myself; I wanted Mr. Slade to thrash him, for I now understood the terrible consequences of Lord Unwin’s quest for glory.

  Lord Unwin was too indignant to think of anything other than justifying his actions. “Captain Innes was a traitor to the Crown. He deserved to die.”

  “Even a bloody imbecile like you should be able to see what his death has cost us,” Mr. Slade retorted. “Whatever Innes knew of Kuan’s plans, his whereabouts, or his other henchmen, he’ll take to his grave.”

  38

  The death of captain Innes had immediate and serious repercussions. Lord Unwin confined Mr. Slade to his quarters, and I to mine, while he notified the local authorities about the incident and they removed Captain Innes’s body. I spent many distressful hours wondering what would happen next. At midday Lord Unwin gathered Mr. Slade and me in the cottage where they were lodged. Mr. Slade and I sat in hard wooden chairs in front of the cold hearth, while Lord Unwin stood before us, severe and formal. Outside, rain began to fall, pelting the thatched roof; mist cloaked the forested hills.

  “John Slade,” said Lord Unwin, “you are hereby dismissed from the employ of the Foreign Office.”

  “What?” Mr. Slade exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. “Why?”

  “Sit down,” Lord Unwin said.

  Mr. Slade remained standing face to face with Lord Unwin. “Is it because I pointed out that you made a mistake by giving the order to fire on Captain Innes?”

  “It is not,” Lord Unwin said, but annoyance twitched his mouth, and I knew that Mr. Slade had deduced at least part of the reason for the dismissal. “Rather, your actions have led to the death of an important witness in an official investigation.”

  Enlightenment and dismay struck me at the same moment they became apparent in Mr. Slade’s expression. “Ah. I see. You intend for me to take the blame for your mistake.” His eyes flashed with anger. “You’re seizing on the death of Captain Innes as an excuse to get rid of me.”

  Lord Unwin puffed with satisfaction. “Think what you wish. Tomorrow morning you will take the train to London, where you will settle your affairs at the Foreign Office.”

  “You can’t do this!” Mr. Slade clenched his fists and took a step towards Lord Unwin. “Kuan has still to be captured. My mission is not yet finished!”

  “The mission is yours no longer,” Lord Unwin said spitefully. “I am assuming charge of the hunt for Mr. Kuan.”

  “I’ve brought the hunt this far,” Mr. Slade said, loud with indignation. “And for the sake of the kingdom, you had better let me finish it. You couldn’t catch a fish in a barrel by yourself!”

  I wholeheartedly agreed; yet my opinion would count for nothing with Lord Unwin. His face reddened with ire at Mr. Slade’s insult; he spoke with haughty derision: “Save your breath. My decision is final. Here ends your career in the service of the Crown.”

  Mr. Slade’s indignation subsided into defeat. Humiliation sagged his posture and quenched the rage in his eyes. I felt deep sympathy for him, but he wouldn’t look at me.

  “As for you, Miss Bronte,” said Lord Unwin, “Her Majesty has decided that she no longer wishes you to serve as governess to the children. The Prince Consort agrees.” Here ended my brush with royalty. I bowed my head in shame at the ignominious dismissal. “The Foreign Office also has no further need of your services. You will join Mr. Slade on his journey to London and thereafter proceed to your home.”

  “You’re dismissing Miss Bronte?” Mr. Slade stared as though he couldn’t believe it. “But she’s the only connection you have to Kuan. Now that his accomplice is dead, you need her more than ever.”

  “Her assistance has produced little result beyond a wild goose chase across the kingdom and continent, and at considerable expense, I might add,” Lord Unwin said. “The pursuit of Mr. Kuan will be carried out according to my own plans.”

  What those were, I could not imagine, and I would have wagered that Lord Unwin didn’t know, either. In his haste to be rid of Mr. Slade and me, he strode to the door and opened it. Outside, the cold rain poured.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Slade,” he said. “Goodbye, Miss Bronte.”

  My belongings took only moments to pack, and I had nothing else to do for the rest of that day. The Queen and Prince Consort kept the children away from me, the ladies-in-waiting shunned me, and servants brought my meals to my room. I felt like an outcast. To my further distress, Mr. Slade also avoided me. I supposed that he was preoccupied with the loss of his profession and his honor. What had happened last night might as well have never been. I had hoped we might at least talk over what had happened and devise some plan to counter Lord Unwin, but our only communication was a letter from Mr. Slade that said he’d had no word from the agents he’d sent to Haworth. Such fear I suffered for my family! Now that I could never accomplish the task Kuan had set me, were they all doomed? My despair increased with each passi
ng hour.

  I did not expect to sleep that night, but I was so exhausted that I dropped into a black well of slumber the moment my head touched the pillow. Much later I was roused by someone shaking my shoulder. I blinked in the moonlight. Startled and confused, I uttered a cry. A hand clapped over my mouth.

  “Quiet!” an urgent voice hissed.

  It was the Duchess of Norfolk, leaning over me, dressed in black, her fair hair covered by a hat with a veil. She removed her hand from my mouth, then raised a finger that cautioned me to be still. I came fully alert and put on my spectacles, and saw that her expression was as fearful as I suddenly felt.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “Get up, Miss Bronte,” she said. “Dress yourself. You’re coming with me.”

  “Why?” I said, more confused than ever. Somewhere in the castle a clock struck two. “Where are we going at this hour?”

  “To kidnap the children.”

  Shock caught my breath. Horror rendered me inarticulate; I could only stammer.

  “Hurry,” the Duchess ordered, her own voice shaky with nerves. “Mr. Kuan doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  I had assumed that the death of Captain Innes had rid the royal household of Kuan’s accomplice; so had Mr. Slade and Lord Unwin. But we had underestimated Kuan. He had arranged a second accomplice in case the captain failed him.

  “No,” I declared, furious as well as amazed. “I won’t go. You must know why.” What had happened, and my role as a spy, could be no secret.

  But the Duchess hardly seemed to listen, let alone care. She took from her handbag a pistol, which she aimed straight at me. “Do as I say.”

  The pistol trembled in her hand. Although fear clenched my heart, I couldn’t believe she had the courage to use the gun. “Go ahead and shoot me,” I said. “The noise will awaken everyone. They’ll come running. They’ll find me dead and catch you. You’ll be hanged for murder.”

  “Don’t argue!” the Duchess hissed, ramming the gun against my temple.

  The cold, hard steel jolted a whimper from me, and I realized that she was crazed enough to kill me unless I obeyed her. She said, “Mr. Kuan warned me that if you should ruin his plans for the kidnapping, then I must kill you, and the children too. And I swear I will if you don’t get up right this moment!”

  Even while terror overwhelmed my thoughts, I said, “Why must you do this? What has Mr. Kuan promised you in exchange, or threatened upon you if you refuse?”

  The Duchess made an impatient sound. “That is not your business, Miss Bronte.”

  Whatever hold Kuan had upon her was a strong one. I felt a desperate wish to live, and a duty to protect the children. I had to cooperate with the Duchess and hope that some opportunity to save them and myself would later arise.

  “Very well,” I said.

  She kept the gun aimed at me as I quickly dressed. When I had finished, she hurried me through the door that led from my room to the nursery. Two royal guardsmen were standing near the beds in which Bertie, Vicky, and Alfred slept.

  “Wrap them up,” the Duchess whispered to the guards, “and let us be gone.”

  These guards were also in Kuan’s employ! How many other accomplices might there be in the royal household? I asked the Duchess, “Why don’t you and the guardsmen kidnap the children yourself ? Why not spare me?”

  “We all have roles to play for Mr. Kuan,” she said. “Yours is to take the children. Ours is to stay behind.”

  I now understood that Kuan intended that his minions remain inside the royal household, in the event he should need them again. Such foresight he had! I watched helplessly as the guards drew back the covers from Vicky and Bertie. The children neither stirred nor made a noise.

  “I slipped laudanum into their cocoa,” the Duchess said. “They’ll not waken for quite some time.”

  The sight of the men bundling the two frail, pliable children into blankets pained my heart. I forgave Bertie his mischief. When the men reached for little Alfred, protest rose in me. “Please don’t take him!” I cried. “He’s just a baby.”

  “Be quiet!” The Duchess eyed the door as if fearing someone would burst in upon us.

  Heedless of her gun, I tried to pull Alfred away from the guards. As we tussled, the boy mewled.

  “Leave him,” the Duchess said urgently to the guards. “We can’t take the risk that he’ll make more noise and wake people. The others will have to suffice.”

  I had at least saved one child. The Duchess opened the nursery door. The guardsmen slipped through, one carrying Vicky, the other Bertie. The Duchess pushed me after them. We filed along the dark corridor and descended the stairs. The castle was as silent and deserted as a crypt. The guards who’d once patrolled Balmoral had vanished; the Queen and her retinue slept peacefully in the mistaken belief that the children were safe. Our furtive procession continued outdoors, through the forest that had sheltered Mr. Slade and me last night but now seemed a godforsaken wilderness. Predatory birds shrieked above trees whose branches groaned and creaked. My heart ran a race with fear. I was so weak from it that I could not have walked except for the gun at my back. At last we emerged onto a moonlit road. There we met a carriage. Two men jumped down from the box. One helped the guards stow the sleeping children inside the carriage. The other man approached me.

  “We meet again, Miss Bronte,” he said.

  I recognized his gallant, mocking voice; the moon shone on his blond hair. It was Mr. Hitchman. “Good evening,” I stammered while my fear scaled new heights. The man had never quite trusted me. I recalled his threatening to kill me if I should betray his partner.

  “Please get in the carriage,” Hitchman said.

  While I reluctantly obeyed, I cast an anxious glance towards the Duchess, who knew I had turned in Kuan’s other accomplice and tried to prevent the kidnapping. If she should tell Hitchman… But she was gone. She and the guards had slipped away into the forest. They probably hated Kuan as much as they feared him, and they cared not if they sent an enemy into his camp.

  Hitchman proffered me a vial. “If you would be so kind as to drink this laudanum, Miss Bronte? It will relax you and spare me the trouble of worrying about you during our trip.”

  I was reluctant to lull the wits that I needed to plot my escape; nor did I wish to leave the children alone at Hitchman’s mercy. But I feared Hitchman as much as ever. I must give the appearance that I was a willing ally to him and Kuan. I therefore accepted the vial and downed the bitter draught.

  “Excellent,” Hitchman said.

  He closed the carriage door on me. The bolt clanged into place. I heard him jump up on the box beside the driver; I heard the whip crack. The carriage sped down the road in a storm of rattling wheels and hooves. I hugged the sleeping, blanket-swathed Vicky and Bertie, whose innocent lives depended on me. I could not fail them.

  As the carriage sped onward, I fought down my rising hysteria. I told myself that Mr. Slade would soon find me gone from Balmoral and rescue me and the children. My last thought, as I drifted into black oblivion, was a disturbing question: Once Kuan had Vicky and Bertie in his hands, what further use would he have for me?

  39

  Drugged and asleep while I rode towards an unknown destination, I was unaware of the other events associated with Kuan’s scheme. I cannot describe with precision the scene the next morning when the Queen discovered that her children were gone, for she and I never spoke of it. But in my mind’s eye I see the Queen opening the nursery door and her puzzlement at the sight of the two vacant beds in which she had tucked Vicky and Bertie the previous night. Little Alfred sits up in his crib and calls to her. As she takes him in her arms, she asks where his brother and sister are. She enters my room, sees that it is empty, and rushes to her husband, crying, “Bertie, Vicky, and the governess are gone!”

  The Prince Consort summons their attendants and mounts a search of the castle and grounds, but we are nowhere to be found. The Queen inspects my room, where s
he discovers my outdoor clothes missing. There is but one terrible conclusion for her to draw.

  I do know what happened next, because Mr. Slade later told me. He and Lord Unwin came riding up to the castle in a carriage intended to take Mr. Slade and me to the train station. Lord Unwin meant to go along and ensure that we departed. The Queen and Prince Consort rushed outside to meet them.

  “Miss Bronte has kidnapped Bertie and Vicky!” the Queen announced in distraught rage.

  “That cannot be!” Mr. Slade said.

  “She and the children are gone,” said the Prince Consort. “What else are we to believe?”

  “This is all your doing,” the Queen fumed at Mr. Slade and Lord Unwin. “Had you not convinced me to go along with your outrageous scheme and bring Miss Bronte here, this would never have occurred!”

  As she burst into hysterical tears and the Prince Consort tried to calm her, Lord Unwin hastened to say, “It was Mr. Slade’s idea.”

  “Miss Bronte is a woman of good moral character,” Mr. Slade said. “She would never harm the children.”

  I know Mr. Slade was sorely vexed by Lord Unwin’s attempt to put all the blame on him, and even more upset on my account. Did he wonder if Kuan had suborned me into carrying out the kidnapping after all?

  “I never trusted Miss Bronte,” said Lord Unwin. “Now she’s proven herself a criminal.”

  “Well, I don’t give a damn which of you is at fault!” the Queen shouted. “I order you to get my children back. And find Miss Bronte, that I may have her hanged for treason!”

  Lord Unwin turned to Mr. Slade. “You’d best hurry up.”

  “You discharged me yesterday,” Mr. Slade reminded him.

  “You’re reinstated,” Lord Unwin said grudgingly.

  As to events that transpired farther afield, I learned them from another source. Into my tale I insert pages from a letter written by Branwell to Francis Grundy, an engineer he had met while working for the Leeds and Manchester Railway, a letter he never sent. My dear Francis, Since we last met, I have had a most astounding, incredible experience. I hesitate to write of it, for fear that you will not believe me. As you know, I have been in quite a bad state. Daily I grow weaker and more wretched. I must drink liquor and laudanum or suffer the worst, blackest despair. When their blessed sedative effects wear off, then come the chills, the trembling, the nauseous stomach, the pounding headache, the intolerable bodily misery. Worst of all, I am plagued by regrets for what I might have been-a great artist, writer, and hero in my own life story. That was my condition on what I believe was 10 September, when I found myself without a drop of either remedy at hand. Nearly insane with desire for relief, I ransacked the room and oh! Good fortune smiled upon me, villain that I was! I found money in Father’s drawer! I hastened to the village and bought a vial of laudanum, which I tucked in my pocket; I then stumbled into the Black Bull Inn. A boxing match was in progress. Two country lads were throwing fists at each other. Spectators roared, laughed, drank their pints, and flung down coins. They welcomed me, and soon the wine was flowing like fire through my veins. I felt like a candle burned down to its end, the wick sputtering in a pool of wax. My head whirled. I remember nothing of the hours that ensued, until I awoke in an upstairs room. A maid from the inn came and told me I’d slept all day and it was time to go home. Dizzy and nauseated, I staggered through the village. It was the dead of night; the streets were deserted. Stars shone like evil eyes in the black sky. The wind howled from the moors. Having laboriously scaled the hill, I fell against the door of the parsonage. It was locked. I banged loudly, calling for someone to let me in. It was opened by a big, brutish man I’d never seen before. “Who are you?” the stranger said. Surprised and disturbed, I said, “I am Branwell Bronte. I live here. What are you doing in my house?” He hauled me inside, then slammed and bolted the door. I fell to my knees. Terror kindled in me, for even though my senses were still befuddled by drink, I knew something was seriously wrong. “Where are my father and sisters?” I said. “What have you done with them?” Two more men materialized in the hall. I blinked, unsure if they were real or my vision had multiplied the image of the first man. He said, “It’s the son. I couldn’t leave him outside to make noise and attract attention. What should we do with him?” Another of the men said, “Put him down with the others.” The third man opened the cellar door. They forced me towards the stairs. How I shrieked and fought! Since childhood I have always been afraid of the cellar; I cannot shake my notion that it is haunted by goblins. But I was too feeble to resist. I tumbled down the stairs into the black pit. The door slammed and locked. The cold miasma of the grave enclosed me. “Let me out!” I shrieked in terror. “I beg of you!” I tried to crawl up the stairs, but I was trembling so violently that my efforts failed. Whimpering, I curled up on the floor. I heard whispers and rustling movements. “No!” I cried, thinking that the goblins were coming to pull me down into hell. “Go away!” “Branwell, is that you?” said a voice near me. “Leave me alone!” I pleaded. Cold fingers touched my cheek. I screamed and writhed until the being that I’d taken for a goblin said, “It’s Anne.” Now I recognized her voice, and the murmuring voices of Emily and my father. Such relief overwhelmed me that I wept. We embraced in the darkness. “What has happened?” I asked her. “Why are those men holding us prisoners?” Anne told me a fantastic tale of murders, of Charlotte and a Foreign Office spy and the Queen, and a pursuit of a villainous madman. I did not understand most of it; nor could I believe it. But the fact remained that we were locked in the cellar, at the mercy of strangers. “What are we going to do?” I asked. Father said, “We must trust in God to deliver us.” Anne clasped my hand. “Help will come,” she said. I was suddenly overcome by sickness. My stomach convulsed and heaved as if there were a wild beast inside me trying to get out. I vomited time and again, while tremors wracked me. Oh, what pain, what mortal suffering! “O, death, take me now!” I begged. “Release me from this misery!” Anne stroked my forehead and spoke soothing words. Emily said, “Enough! You’re only making things worse for the rest of us!” With such scorn and hatred did she speak! It stabbed me to the heart. I began to sob. But Emily cared not for my feelings. She said, “If you were the man you should be, you wouldn’t have let those men throw you into the cellar. You would have fought them and rescued us. At the very least, you could have run for help.” She berated me with accusations that I was weak, wretched, selfish, stupid. I knew she was right. Such woeful shame did I feel! Such a poor excuse for a brother and son was I! “You’re no good to anyone including yourself,” Emily said in a tone so cruel that it withered my spirit. “You might as well die.” But though I prayed for an end to my sorrows and humiliations, there leapt within me a contradictory desire almost as strong. Emily’s harsh words had awakened some long-dormant part of me that wanted to live. It urged me to rise up and prove her criticism undeserved, to fend off the shadow of death that encroached upon me. I realized that I might have but one more chance to atone for my evils, to show some small degree of the heroism I had craved all my life, before I died. Beneath my sickness and tremors, a force hardened like a steel tendon inside me. It was my will, which I had thought long gone. “I’m going to save us all,” I declared. But my voice was as weak as my body. Anne and Papa said nothing; Emily uttered a disdainful laugh and said, “Just how shall you do that?”