Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Alas, my encounter with Slade was no nightmare: it was miserably real. Once he had loved me, but at the theater he had turned coldly from me.

  When I left the theater, I could hardly restrain my tears during the trip back to Gloucester Terrace. There I spent a sleepless, terrible night. Alone and devastated, I wept. But hope is stubborn, and the mind interprets facts according to what it wishes rather than what is logical. The dawn of a new day infuses strength into the most broken heart. When the sun’s first rays crept in my window, I sat up in bed and took a fresh view of last night’s events.

  The man I’d met was Slade; I had no doubt. Perhaps he’d only been pretending not to recognize me, for some reason related to his work as a secret agent. Perhaps he was in disguise and mustn’t reveal his true identity to anyone. But what about Katerina the Great? Unable to ignore her, I speculated that she was a part of whatever mission he’d undertaken. Slade wouldn’t be so inconstant, so callous.

  Or would he?

  Three years had passed, during which I myself had aged and changed. Slade’s life during those years must have been much more eventful than mine; he would have changed even more than I. And I couldn’t deny the fact that he’d been a patient in the criminal lunatic wing of Bedlam, accused of multiple, savage murders. Had something disastrous happened to Slade? Had it transformed him from an honorable man to a monster?

  I could draw no definite conclusions. I saw no course of action except to pursue the truth about Slade, and the morning brought new inspiration as to how I could. I rose, washed myself, and dressed. A few years earlier I would have hesitated to go out by myself, but my adventures had given me a certain independence of spirit. I left the house so early that the Smiths were still abed, and I hailed a carriage. I rode through a city that looked as lonely as I felt. It was Sunday, and London was quiet; few other people were about. Yellowish smoke from the factories hung in air that was already warm and sultry at seven o’clock. By the time I arrived in Downing Street, church bells had begun to ring, dull as lead. I climbed out of the carriage, paid the driver, and hesitated outside a row of grimy brick buildings.

  These comprised the seat of the Foreign Office, which managed Britain’s affairs abroad. Here Slade’s employers had their headquarters. If anyone knew what was happening with Slade, they surely did. I’d had doubts as to whether they would be here on a Sunday morning, but I saw lights in some windows. I took a deep breath and went inside. A dapper official was stationed at a desk in the foyer. He said, “May I be of service, madam?”

  “I’d like to see Lord Eastbourne.”

  That gentleman was Slade’s immediate superior. For three years I’d searched the newspapers for items relating to Slade, and I’d spotted a notice to the effect that Lord Eastbourne had taken the place vacated by Slade’s former superior, Lord Unwin. The sly, selfish, and incompetent Lord Unwin had sabotaged Slade’s efforts, and mine, to save the Royal Family from a madman. The Foreign Secretary had punished Lord Unwin by assigning him to a post in India. He’d died there, of cholera, six months ago; I’d seen his obituary. Now I hoped that Lord Eastbourne was in, and that he could shed some light on Slade’s current situation.

  “Lord Eastbourne can’t be disturbed,” the official said. “Come back another time.”

  “Tell him it is Charlotte Brontë. Tell him I must speak with him about John Slade.”

  I didn’t know which name had changed his attitude, but the official said, “One moment.” He left, then soon returned. “Follow me.”

  He escorted me through a series of ill-lit passages and left me in an office. Lord Eastbourne rose from his chair. He was a tall, robust man who had the appearance of a country solicitor. Ruddy skin complemented features that were blunt and strong. He would have looked as much at ease walking the moors as he did behind his massive desk, which was covered with letters and documents written in a bold, slanted, masculine hand. On first glance he was a big improvement over Lord Unwin, but I cautioned myself that appearances were often deceiving.

  “Miss Brontë,” he said, coming out from behind his desk to shake my hand. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’ve been briefed on the good work you did for us.”

  I was glad he knew who I was. It saved me the trouble of convincing him that I’d helped Slade save the British Empire.

  Lord Eastbourne seated me on a divan and himself in an armchair opposite me. “Whatever I can I do for you, just ask.”

  His brown eyes were shrewd and intelligent but not unkind. I poured out the story of how I’d come upon Slade in Bedlam and everything that had happened since. Lord Eastbourne listened with close attention. When I’d finished, I said, “I need to know what has happened to Slade. I came to you because I had nowhere else to turn.”

  Concern appeared in Lord Eastbourne’s expression. “You’ve posed me a bit of a dilemma. Information about our agents is strictly confidential.”

  My heart sank.

  “But I have a certain amount of discretion. And considering the fact that you risked your life for the sake of our kingdom, I owe you an explanation.”

  Hope resurged. I eagerly leaned forward. “Where is Slade?”

  “Before we discuss John Slade, I should give you a little background on the assignment he undertook for us three years ago,” Lord Eastbourne said.

  I tried to quell my fear that he was postponing bad news.

  “Slade was posted to Russia,” Lord Eastbourne began.

  “I’m aware of that. He told me before he left.”

  “What do you know about Russia?”

  “I know that Russia is a land where Europe blends with Asia.” Since Slade had left for Russia, I had read up on it. “It covers millions of square miles, and its population includes Mongols, Slavs, Turks, and Tatars. Their written language is the Cyrillic alphabet. The state religion is the Orthodox Christian Church, which I understand combines Roman Catholicism with pagan rituals.”

  “Those are some basic facts,” Lord Eastbourne said in the condescending tone that a schoolmaster uses toward a clever little girl. “Allow me to tell you a little more. Russia began, during the ninth century, as a handful of principalities in the Ukraine, controlled by tribal chiefs. It was invaded in the thirteenth century by Mongols. Russia was united under Prince Ivan the Great, who drove out the Mongols in the fifteenth century. He arrested, imprisoned, tortured, and executed anyone who opposed his rule. When he died, there ensued a period of uprisings and civil wars that lasted into the seventeenth century. A new dynasty, the Romanov, took over, and still reigns today.”

  “I know. I have studied Russia’s recent history.” My habit of pride in my education compelled me to demonstrate my knowledge to Lord Eastbourne, and I hoped I could speed up this lesson on Russia so we could proceed to the matter of John Slade. “During the last two centuries, Russia has won multiple wars against Turkey and Persia. The result is that Russia captured the Crimea and gained other territory, along the Black Sea coast, the Bosporus, and the mouth of the Danube. It has incorporated Georgia and Finland, part of Armenia, and expanded westward into Poland and Lithuania. When Napoleon invaded it in 1812, Russia fought back so fiercely that he was forced to retreat. Russia became a major world power, an empire that extends from Poland to the Pacific Ocean, and the Arctic Ocean to the Persian Gulf. Today, Russia is Britain’s rival for control of the Middle Eastern territories. Its influence in those parts is a threat to Britain’s Indian Empire.”

  “You are well informed,” Lord Eastbourne said, surprised into respect. “But please allow me to broaden your understanding. Russia is a backward, primitive country controlled by the present Tsar, Nicholas Pavlovich. He is a tyrant who has absolute power over his subjects. They have none of the rights or freedoms that make our own country great.”

  He swelled with patriotic pride; then he turned grim. “Our relationship with Tsar Nicholas is complicated. On one hand, we are thankful to him for maintaining order in Europe. He has vigorously acted to crush revolutions and pre
serve the ruling monarchies. In 1849, for example, when Polish citizens of the Austrian Empire rose up in support of Hungarian rebels, he sent Russian troops to help Emperor Franz Josef put down the insurrection. On the other hand, we consider Russia a threat because the Tsar is bent on enlarging his domain. His army is almost a million men strong. India is a sitting target, its wealth ripe for plunder. Britain must prevent Russia from invading India and maintain her own influence in the Middle East.”

  I knew all this, but I forced myself to listen politely. “Fortunately for us, the Tsar has problems at home, which have checked his ambitions. There is much civil unrest. The Russian leaders fear that subversive ideas from the West will bring about a cataclysmic revolution within Russia’s own borders. In order to control their own people, they created a secret police force known as the Third Section. The Third Section maintains surveillance on Russian citizens suspected of revolutionary activity. Its agents censor material printed in the press. They investigate crimes against the state, such as sabotage and political assassinations. They often provoke revolutionaries to commit those crimes, then imprison them or exile them without a trial.”

  “This is all very interesting,” I said, “but how does it concern Slade?”

  “Slade’s purpose in Russia was twofold,” Lord Eastbourne said. “He went there to establish contact with Russian revolutionaries, supply them with money, and do whatever he could to further their cause and weaken the Tsar’s regime. That he did, while posing as a Russian scholar and journalist. Second, he was supposed to put himself in a position to learn what the Tsar’s plans are regarding action against Britain. He achieved both purposes, although the details as to how are unclear.”

  For three years I’d wondered what Slade was doing in Russia; now I knew, but I had yet to learn anything that pertained to the present.

  “Slade managed to infiltrate the Kremlin—the Tsar’s palace,” Lord Eastbourne said. “He was our best agent in Moscow. He smuggled messages to us, reporting secrets from the highest echelon of the Russian government. But in January of this year, his messages stopped. So did the flow of all other intelligence from Moscow. We heard nothing until February, when one of our Russian informants showed up in London. He told us that Slade had turned traitor.”

  My mouth dropped. Shock delivered after too many previous shocks rendered me speechless.

  “Apparently, Slade had given the Third Section the names of his three fellow British agents,” Lord Eastbourne said. “The Third Section arrested and murdered all of them. Our informant said that Slade had begun working for the Tsar, as an expert on British espionage, foreign policy, and military strategy.”

  I found my voice. “That can’t be! Slade would never betray his country or his comrades!”

  “Our source is reliable,” Lord Eastbourne countered, “and his statement was corroborated by the team of agents we sent to investigate.”

  “I refuse to believe it!” My whole body was shaking, so agitated was I. “Where is Slade? I must hear his side of the story!”

  Lord Eastbourne regarded me with a sympathy that I found more ominous than reassuring. He took my hand and held it between his own, which were warm, dry, and strong. The intimate gesture filled me with dread, for I had often seen clergymen extend it to the newly bereaved. “Miss Brontë, I know you think highly of John Slade. I regret to inform you that Slade was executed for treason. Our team of agents ambushed him in Moscow and shot him.”

  Even as I went faint with horror, disbelief and anger flooded me. I wrenched my hand out of Lord Eastbourne’s. “Slade is alive! I saw him last night! I just told you so!”

  The sympathy in Lord Eastbourne’s eyes turned to pity. “Whoever you saw, it couldn’t have been him. Whether or not you believe he was a traitor, you must face this fact: John Slade has been dead for four months now.”

  10

  WHEN I RETURNED TO GLOUCESTER TERRACE, ALL I WANTED to do was avoid everyone, shut myself in my room, think on what I’d learned at the Foreign Office, and try to recover from my shock. But George Smith met me at the foot of the stairs. “Where have you been?” He was clearly relieved to see me, but vexed by my absence.

  “I had business to attend to.” I couldn’t tell him what business.

  Mrs. Smith joined us, happy that I’d displeased George. “Miss Brontë might have told us she was going out. But she is a secretive, stealthy sort of houseguest.”

  “Our appointment with Dr. Browne, the phrenologist, is at nine o’clock,” George said. “I was worried that you wouldn’t come back in time. Had you forgotten?”

  “Oh, dear. I am sorry.” I had indeed forgotten that we’d arranged to meet with Dr. Browne, who examined the skulls of his clients in order to assess their characters. Phrenology was all the rage, and Dr. Browne so popular that this Sunday morning was the only time during my stay in London that he could see us.

  “You evidently don’t appreciate the trouble my son takes to entertain you.” Mrs. Smith addressed me but caught George’s eye.

  “Well, no matter, Charlotte,” he said, looking uncomfortable. I could see he’d begun to sense that his mother didn’t care for me. “You’re here now. Shall we be on our way? I thought we could visit the zoo afterward.”

  “Yes, but first I must go up to my room.” I desperately needed some time alone before facing the rest of the day.

  As I ran up the stairs, I heard Mrs. Smith say, “Miss Brontë looks ill. Her constitution is delicate.” Too delicate for her to make you a good wife, her tone implied. “Perhaps she should go home.”

  I wouldn’t give Mrs. Smith the satisfaction; and I couldn’t leave London now, when momentous events were happening one after another with no resolution in sight. In my room I drew deep breaths to calm myself, then splashed cold water on my face. Soon I was in a carriage with George, riding along Bayswater Road.

  “How was the play last night?” he asked.

  “Good enough,” I said in a tone meant to discourage further questions.

  “Oh.” He felt snubbed, I could tell. But George is so good-natured that he seldom takes offense for long. He began to point out interesting sights and talk about them, although I barely listened. My mind dwelled on my conversation with Lord Eastbourne. He had kindly but firmly insisted that I must accept the truth and forget John Slade, for my own good. I’d left the Foreign Office upset because the authorities would not help me find Slade. They believed he was dead. They would not change their minds on the word of a hysterical woman. Perhaps that was for the best, since they were no longer his friends. But now I began to question my own credibility. Maybe the man I’d seen really wasn’t Slade. Maybe my nearsightedness was getting worse.

  Dr. Browne had his consultancy in a row of townhouses near the Strand, that great thoroughfare that skirts the bank of the Thames from the West End to the city proper. When George rang the bell, a butler answered and said, “Mr. and Miss Fraser, I presume?”

  Those were the names under which George had booked our appointment. We’d decided to pose as brother and sister and not reveal our true names, in case Dr. Browne had heard of us—foreknowledge might compromise his analysis. The butler sat George in the waiting room and ushered me to Dr. Browne’s office.

  A slender man of perhaps fifty years, Dr. Browne had a long face with drooping jowls and pink cheeks. He was so clean that he smelled of soap and everything about him shone—his rimless spectacles, his long white coat, the gray hair combed over his bald pate, and his toothy, ingratiating smile. On the wall hung a phrenology chart—drawings of a head in front, back, top, and side views, with areas divided by dotted lines and labeled. He seated me by the window, in a chair with a cushioned seat and low back. I noticed a display of framed portraits of well-known people.

  “Those are clients,” Dr. Browne said proudly.

  I thought it a good thing that I’d used an alias. I wouldn’t care to have my portrait hung in his office and the results of his examination of Currer Bell publicized.

>   “Please allow me to explain the theory of phrenology,” Dr. Browne said. “The mind has different mental faculties, which reside in different organs within the brain. Bumps on the skull reflect the size of the underlying organs. I can therefore measure a person’s capacity for a particular mental faculty by measuring that bump.”

  He took up a set of calipers. “First, I shall take some overall measurements of your skull. Hold still, please.” I obeyed while he fitted the calipers to my head, front to back, then sideways, and read off the numbers. “Ah! Your head is quite large.”

  I wondered if the numerous folks who thought phrenology was quackery were right. I hardly needed Dr. Browne to tell me what anyone could see—that my head was too big for my body. “Is it?” I said, ever self-conscious about my awkward proportions.

  “Indeed. It’s remarkable for its intellectual development. You have a large forehead, which signifies deep thoughtfulness and comprehensive understanding.”

  That consoled me somewhat. Dr. Browne set aside his calipers, worked his fingertips gently but firmly over my scalp, and felt the bumps and indentations. “You have a fine organ of language. I deduce that you can express your sentiments with clearness, precision, and force.”

  Perhaps there was merit to phrenology.

  “You are very sensitive, with a nervous temperament, an exalted sense of the beautiful and ideal, and a gloomy view of the world. Although you are anxious to succeed in your undertakings, you are not so sanguine as to the probability of success.”