“Oh, don’t mince words,” the Queen said impatiently. “We’re not asking. It’s an order.”
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Palmerston said.
“It would serve no good purpose for the British people to learn what almost happened,” the Queen said. “It would only frighten them and destroy their confidence in the government.”
Neither George, Mr. Thackeray, nor I dared to suggest that since the threat to Britain had been engineered by one of its own officials, perhaps the government deserved to lose some of its citizens’ faith in it. When the Queen said, “Do you swear to keep the events of last night a secret?” we each solemnly said, “I do.”
“You are free to go,” Palmerston said. “Unless you have questions you’d like to ask.”
“I hope Dr. Crick is not in trouble?” I said.
“Fortunately for him, no one was hurt when his airship exploded,” Palmerston said. “I’ve had him sent home. He won’t be punished.”
“The only thing he’s guilty of is having the bad judgment to fall in with you, Miss Brontë,” the Queen said, cutting her eyes at me.
Mr. Thackeray spoke up. “What’s to become of Dr. Kavanagh?”
“That is yet to be determined,” the Queen said.
“What about his research?” George asked.
“Her Majesty has declared it a state secret,” Palmerston said. I understood that it was his idea. “We’ll collect Kavanagh’s papers and equipment and put them in a secure place.”
“Shouldn’t his work be continued?” Mr. Thackeray asked.
“It could be used for the good of mankind,” George said. “Why, it could revolutionize science.”
“Possibly,” the Queen said, “but his theory about the cause of disease is too extreme to be sprung on the world all of a sudden.”
“His techniques for culturing the animalcules are too dangerous to let fall into the hands of our enemies during this troubled age,” Palmerston said. “His work must be suppressed until the time is right to make it public.”
I couldn’t imagine when that would be. “But Wilhelm Stieber knows about Dr. Kavanagh’s research. He’ll tell the Tsar.”
Palmerston’s smile thinned. “Not if we can help it.”
“Your Majesty, may I ask how Mr. Slade is?” George said, looking at me.
“My physician tells me that Mr. Slade is expected to make a full recovery. But you could have asked Miss Brontë.” The Queen gave me an unpleasant, insinuating smile. “I daresay she knows more about Mr. Slade than anyone else does.”
I covered my embarrassment by asking, “Is there any news of Lord Eastbourne?”
“He was caught this morning at his home, where he’d gone to pack his things and fetch money to leave the country,” Palmerston said.
“What will become of him?” Mr. Thackeray asked.
“He will get his comeuppance,” the Queen said, “never fear.”
“In the meantime, we would like to thank you for your service to the Crown,” Palmerston said to George, Mr. Thackeray, and me. “I’m sorry that because of the need for discretion, we can’t give you any medals, but please know that you are held in the highest honor.”
“Yes,” the Queen said. “Mr. Smith and Mr. Thackeray, you are heroes. And you, Miss Brontë, are a heroine.” She pronounced the last word as if she’d had another one in mind.
We thanked her and Lord Palmerston. After she had dismissed us, George and Mr. Thackeray and I were escorted out of the palace to a carriage that waited to take us home. Mr. Thackeray said, “That was certainly a hullabaloo, wasn’t it, Miss Brontë?” I noticed that he didn’t call me Jane Eyre. I suspected he never would again. “I could have dined out on it for the next ten years if I hadn’t been sworn to secrecy.”
George held out his hand to help me into the carriage. “May I?”
“Thank you, but I’m not going yet.” I wanted to wait for Slade.
George dropped his hand. “I understand.” He sounded dejected. I recalled that he’d seen me kissing Slade last night. He’d deduced that there was no place in my heart for him. “Well, then,” he said with an attempt at a smile. “I hope to see you the next time you’re in London.”
As I bade goodbye to my friends, I felt a distance between us. Last night they’d seen a new side of me, and it had frightened them. Because of me they’d become involved in a near disaster. Our friendship would never be the same, I regretted as I watched the carriage roll out the palace gate. But although I had lost something valuable, I had found what I had set my heart on that day I’d visited Bedlam. I turned and went back inside the palace, to Slade.
Now the bells at St. Sepulchre’s Church tolled eight o’clock. A huge crowd massed outside Newgate Prison to watch justice served. Men, women, and children pressed against the railings that surrounded the scaffold, a platform some ten feet high and ten feet long, which abutted the wall of the prison. Upon the scaffold, the gibbet consisted of two parallel beams supported on two wooden pillars. A roof sheltered a pair of benches. Slade and I sat in the gallery provided for privileged spectators, amid government and court officials and their guests. I felt sick to my stomach with anticipation and dread.
I had never witnessed a hanging before, although public executions were a popular form of entertainment in London.
“You don’t have to watch,” Slade said, uneasy for my sake. “We can leave now.”
“I must. We’ll stay.”
I knew he wanted to see his investigation through to its end, and I felt a duty to witness the consequences brought about in part by my actions. It was my duty as a writer to look straight at them, so that I would be able to tell the story with firsthand authenticity. Gazing at the gentlemen and ladies seated with us and the people in the crowd below, I was startled by their gay conversation and laughter. They showed none of the sorrow, fear, or sobriety that befitted the occasion; only ribaldry, humor, and drunken debauchery did I observe.
“It’s like a carnival,” I said.
“Or like Romans come to watch the gladiators fight,” Slade said. “This is blood sport in the name of the law.”
Two sheriffs emerged from the prison. As they sat on the benches on the scaffold, the crowd’s noise quieted to an expectant hum. The hangman came out next and stood by the gibbet. Then the pastor appeared, escorting Lord Eastbourne.
Men cheered and booed, boys whistled; they doffed and waved their hats. Ladies and girls applauded. My attention riveted upon Lord Eastbourne. He wore a formal black suit; his wrists were tied behind his back. His jaw was tight; his ruddy complexion had gone pale. His eyes looked straight ahead as he mounted the steps to the gallows. He seemed unaware of the crowds, their jeers. I shrank from him, afraid that our gazes would meet, that I would see the hatred and anger he must feel toward me because I had played a role in his downfall.
Lord Eastbourne ignored the galleries. If he knew that Slade and I were there, he gave no indication. He stoically took his place on a trapdoor set into the platform, under the gibbet.
The crowd fell almost silent. Only a few coughs, a crying child, and the faraway sounds of the city disturbed the hush that engulfed the execution ground. My heart raced; I could hardly breathe. The pastor asked Lord Eastbourne if he had any final words.
Lord Eastbourne could have said that he was guilty of nothing except rash ambition and going behind the Queen’s back. He could have pointed out that he’d tried to put Niall Kavanagh out of action and undo the damage he’d done. He could have added that letting me rot in jail and letting the government think Slade was a traitor were not capital crimes. He could have protested that he’d been sentenced to die only because someone had to pay for the fiasco at the Great Exhibition. All these statements would have been true. But nothing he said could alter his fate.
Lord Eastbourne shook his head. He didn’t lower himself by pleading his case to the riffraff. He stood tall and proud while the pastor intoned prayers for him, but I was close enough to see him trem
bling. The hangman drew a white cotton nightcap over his head, bound a muslin handkerchief over his face. I saw his breath suck and puff at the cloth over his mouth. The hangman placed the rope around Lord Eastbourne’s neck and tightened the noose. He bent and withdrew the pin that held the trapdoor in place.
The trapdoor fell, opening a rectangular hole beneath Lord Eastbourne.
He dropped some two feet into the hole.
I winced as the rope pulled taut. I heard him grunt, his neck snap.
With his white-shrouded head canted at an angle, Lord Eastbourne writhed for a terrible moment. Then he was still. His clothes were limp and loose, as if the man had gone out of them. A corpse swung from the gibbet.
The crowd went wild. People cheered, stamped their feet, and howled. Police forced the mob away from the scaffold. I felt so faint that the riotous scene wavered before me.
Slade took my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
When we were inside a carriage, riding through the crowds that streamed away from Newgate Prison, I recovered enough to say, “I thought I would feel that Lord Eastbourne got what he deserved and justice had been done. But I don’t.” There was a hollow in my heart, a sense of unfinished business rather than vindication. “It’s as if his death wasn’t punishment enough. And I feel evil because I participated in the taking of a human life, which I am beginning to doubt anyone has the right to do, even in the case of traitors or murderers.”
“I know,” Slade said. “Those have been my thoughts, too, at every execution I’ve seen. Hanging is an eye for an eye, but it doesn’t always satisfy the need for vengeance. That can persist even after the criminal is dead, when he’s beyond our reach.” A frown darkened his features, which were thin and drawn from the hardships he’d suffered. “And in this case, Lord Eastbourne wasn’t the only guilty party, or the one who most deserved punishment.”
I nodded, equally distressed. Wilhelm Stieber was still at large.
“That reminds me. I may have some news of Stieber.” Slade took from his pocket a letter that he’d received this morning. He opened the envelope and unfolded the letter. “It’s from the Foreign Office. They’ve been searching for Stieber, canvassing Whitechapel, questioning the European refugees. One of their informants sighted Stieber aboard a ship that was bound for Casablanca.” Slade added bitterly, “He’s given us the slip.”
I murmured in disappointment, but I wasn’t surprised. Slade exclaimed, “I wish I could have killed the bastard!”
“You were faced with a difficult choice,” I reminded him. He had loved me enough to sacrifice his revenge, and he’d put the good of the many ahead of his own momentary, long-desired satisfaction. “You made the right one.”
“. . . Yes,” Slade said.
I knew he was thinking over the events of that night, wondering what he might have done differently. I told him a deep-seated belief of mine: “If one thing had turned out differently, so might everything else. If you had killed Stieber, perhaps you couldn’t have saved us all.”
Slade looked skeptical, then resigned. “Perhaps I could have. But there’s not much use in debating; we’ll never know. It’s over.”
“It is,” I said, relieved. “If England and Russia go to war someday, we can be glad that Niall Kavanagh’s weapon won’t be used by either side. Perhaps Stieber will get his just desserts. But for now we can think about our future.” We had discussed it this past week, and we’d agreed that the first thing we must do was break the news of our marriage to my father, in person. Furthermore, I wanted a real wedding, in our church at home. “Shall we leave for Haworth today?”
Slade wasn’t listening. He continued reading his letter, and a strange expression of gladness mixed with dismay came over his face.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I’ve been reinstated. I am an agent of the Foreign Office once again.”
“But that’s good news.” I was delighted for him, because I knew this was what he wanted, his honor and the Crown’s trust in him restored. “Isn’t it?”
He put aside the letter and took my hands in his. The anguish in his eyes told me everything. Tears welled up in my eyes. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes, I hate to say. The bad news is that I’m being sent out on an assignment.”
I clung to him in a futile attempt to keep him with me, but duty had called; he must answer, and I knew he wanted to go. His work was in his blood, as writing was in mine. I would not ask him to give up his vocation. He’d offered to do so when he’d proposed to me three years ago, but I had refused because I couldn’t let him make the sacrifice and I couldn’t leave Haworth. The only compromise would have been to live apart, which neither of us had wanted. Now that we were married, I must brave the separation.
“An assignment where?” I asked faintly. “To do what?”
“I can’t tell you,” Slade said. “It’s supposed to be kept secret. In fact, I won’t know myself until I board the ship.”
“When is that?”
Slade exhaled in sad regret. “Tomorrow morning.”
I was alarmed. “But you’re wounded. How can they put you back to work so soon?”
“My wound isn’t serious. It’ll heal while I’m en route to wherever I’m going.”
“After everything you’ve been through for the sake of England, don’t you deserve a respite?” I said, indignant. “Couldn’t you ask for one?”
“I’m afraid not,” Slade said.
“Perhaps if we told your superiors at the Foreign Office that we are newly married, they would grant us a little time together.”
“They wouldn’t.” Slade explained, “The Queen herself ordered that I should go on this mission.”
I remembered the Queen’s barbed references to my vigil at Slade’s bedside during our night at Buckingham Palace. She was aware that we were lovers, even though she didn’t know we’d married. I also remembered her anger at me for bringing the business with Niall Kavanagh, Wilhelm Stieber, and Lord Eastbourne to a head, even though I’d done it inadvertently and things would have been worse if I hadn’t. A part of her blamed me for the near disaster at the Great Exhibition. She couldn’t forgive me, and she still couldn’t forget that I had been involved in the endangerment of her children three years ago. She’d been forced, once again, to declare me a heroine, but she had found a most personal way to punish me.
“She’s sending you abroad to separate us!” I was so infuriated that I forgot all the respect I owed the Queen. “That cruel, petty, hateful, diabolical harpy!”
Slade drew back, shocked by my outburst. “I don’t believe she would do that.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re a man. I’m a woman, and I know what women are capable of doing to other women they don’t like.”
“All right, if you say so.” Slade clearly wanted to avoid an argument. “But be that as it may, I can’t defy Her Majesty.”
Nor could I. I had thwarted Wilhelm Stieber, defeated Lord Eastbourne, and sabotaged Niall Kavanagh’s bomb, but I was helpless against the Queen. I wept with all the rage, despair, and heartache that I’d accumulated during my adventures. “I’ve found you and now I’m losing you again!”
“I won’t be gone forever,” Slade said, although he looked as miserable as I felt.
“What if you don’t come back?” That was the fear I’d harbored during his three years of absence.
“I will. I promise.” Slade enfolded me in his arms, held my head against his chest. He spoke with tenderness and passion. “We’re husband and wife. Not even fate can separate us forever.” He kissed my hair while our carriage bore us on our last journey through London and I sobbed. “And I’m here now. We’ll make our last day and night together count.”
EPILOGUE
READER, I RETURNED TO HAWORTH ALONE.
Slade and I did endeavor to make our brief time together happy. The memory of it would sustain us in the future. But we knew how thin those memories might have to stretch—over years, perhaps. T
he strain of our imminent parting infused every hour that passed, everything we said. Our last lovemaking had a feverish, desperate quality. Neither of us slept that night. In the morning, we dallied over breakfast so long that we were late to Euston Station. We had but a moment for last words on the platform before my train left.
“When will you return?” I had forbidden myself to cry.
“As soon as I can,” Slade said.
“Will you write to me?”
“If it’s possible.”
After a hasty kiss and embrace, I boarded the train. As it huffed out of the station, I put my head out the window and waved to Slade. He stood on the platform and waved back, his figure growing smaller with the distance until I could see him no more.
I wept all during that journey, and when I arrived at Keighley Station that evening, my eyes burned, my face was swollen, and my head ached. I hired a wagon to take my bag to Haworth, but I decided to walk the four miles. The evening was warm, mellowed by a golden sunset. The air vibrated with the songs of birds that winged from tree to tree as I plodded along the road. The moors exuded the fresh, sweet scents of grasses and flowers. At first the loveliness around me was a torment. Nature’s indifference to my pain seemed cruel. But soon my familiar, beloved landscape began to work its healing magic. By the time I reached the parsonage, I was calm enough to face Papa.
I found him at the dinner table with Mr. Nicholls. I was dismayed to see Mr. Nicholls, for I had wanted a quiet homecoming and no guests to complicate matters. At least Ellen wasn’t there, as I’d feared she would be. My father and his curate rose to greet me with exclamations of surprise and relief.
“Charlotte, where have you been?” Papa asked. “I was so worried about you.”
“So was I,” Mr. Nicholls seemed truly concerned about my welfare, not angry that I’d rudely left him in the Lake District. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I was glad that Papa had apparently put aside his anger at Mr. Nicholls and they were united in their concern for me. But their solicitude dissolved my frail composure. Exhausted, I dropped into a chair, gave in to despair, and wept anew.
Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 33