The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  All I could add was his assumed name and his description. I knew not where Mr. White was to be found. Of one thing was I certain: He would eventually find me.

  “Then what will you do?” Ellen asked.

  I knew I must do something, for the book had shown my situation to be much more serious than I had fathomed. That Isabel’s master had subjugated the prime minister signified that her murder and my own troubles were but superficial manifestations of a far-reaching conspiracy, and that the impending disaster must be of vast proportions.

  “I must identify and locate Isabel’s master,” I said.

  Ellen stared in astonishment. “You? Why, the very idea!” She giggled merrily. “Oh, this must be one of your jokes, for how could you attempt such a hazardous task on your own?”

  I could not explain that my only protection against harm was to deliver Gilbert White to the authorities before he found me. Nor could I admit that I wished for revenge upon the man who’d tricked me. I felt a new strength, fueled by anger, and a great determination to bring about his downfall.

  “I am not joking. Someone must prevent the disaster,” I said, “and who else is there but I?”

  Exasperation colored Ellen’s features. “This is another of your ambitious schemes, then. You should nip it in the bud, or you’re sure to be disappointed.” Her admonition eroded my determination, for who was I to pit myself against a murderer who apparently had the prime minister under his power? “Remember how you wanted to be an author, and it never happened.”

  After insisting that she believe this, I could hardly contradict her now. Still, she had reminded me that I had the talent to write a famous novel and thus achieve what no one had expected of me. I sat up as renewed self-confidence flowed through me like an invigorating tonic.

  “I must at least try to find Isabel’s master,” I said, “for I am certain that everyone connected with Isabel is in danger from him, and I the most of all because I was her last companion. And I have her journal, which I believe he seeks because he thinks it reveals his secrets.”

  “But how can you hope to succeed, when the journal gives no particulars about this mysterious individual?” Ellen asked.

  After some thought, I said, “I shall work with the facts about Isabel that we’ve gleaned today. The Charity School she attended is a place to start.”

  “It’s been many years since Isabel left the school,” Ellen said. “How can it have any bearing on her recent life?”

  “Perhaps she kept in communication with the Reverend and Mrs. Grimshaw,” I said. “Perhaps she told them things that she didn’t tell her mother. Perhaps the school is part of the master’s evil business. Instead of returning home tomorrow, I will travel to Skipton.”

  “Such a bold, drastic move!” With a gasp of horror, Ellen flung out her arms as if to restrain me. “My dear, you mustn’t! If the school is indeed associated with Isabel’s master, you could be walking straight into the lion’s den!”

  “If it is, then it’s the last place he would expect me to go,” I pointed out. “I shall be safer in Skipton than at home.”

  “But what would you do at the school?” Ellen demanded. “You can’t just walk in and start asking questions.”

  Indeed, I knew not how to go about obtaining facts from someone who might wish to hide them. Ellen and I argued: She chastised my impulsiveness and unladylike bravado, while I stubbornly upheld my opinions. At last Ellen sighed in weary frustration.

  “I see that you won’t be dissuaded,” she said. “I have no choice but to go with you to Skipton.”

  There ensued another argument, in which I tried to impress upon her the danger of the trip, while she swore to protect me. I grew strident in my refusal, and Ellen began to weep.

  “If you don’t want me, and you insist on going alone, I’ll return home this very evening.” She began packing her trunk while sobbing into her handkerchief.

  I was torn between shame at hurting Ellen and irritation at her for turning every dispute into a test of our friendship. But I didn’t relish the idea of confronting strangers at the Charity School alone. I capitulated, agreeing that we would journey together to Skipton on the morrow.

  13

  TIME OFFERS NO INVINCIBLE BARRIER AGAINST THE DARK FORCES of the past. New places sometimes possess aspects of places I thought to have left behind me forever; they evoke memories preferably forgotten. This misfortune befell me during my visit to the Charity School.

  Ellen and I arrived in Skipton early in the afternoon of 22 July. Skipton is a market town located on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. Its ruined Norman castle overlooks the village through which we rode in a hired carriage. We journeyed some two miles into meadowland. The Charity School occupied a shallow valley, hidden from nearby farms by a birch forest. The path through this was too narrow for our carriage, so Ellen and I asked the driver to wait, then proceeded on foot.

  “This seems a pleasant place for a school,” Ellen remarked.

  Indeed, the trees shaded us from the hot sun; birds twittered around us; the air smelled cleanly fragrant. “But it’s sufficiently remote that evil things could happen here, with no one outside the wiser.”

  We emerged from the woods. Ahead of us appeared the school—a two-story, stone structure with peaked slate roofs, ruined turrets, and an arched doorway flanked by mullioned windows. A crumbling stone wall enclosed a garden filled with dark, dense holly trees. Beyond the school’s chimneys I saw the round stone tower of an old windmill, its blades missing. A plaque on the wall bore the school’s name.

  At the door, Ellen grasped the knocker and rapped. We had agreed that she should take the lead during this expedition, for I wished to avoid, as much as possible, the notice of the people who had known Isabel White and might have had a part in her troubles and mine. If I effaced myself, perhaps I could induce them to think me insignificant and forgettable.

  Presently, the door was opened by a severe woman dressed in a plain black frock, white apron, and white cap. “Yes?” she said. “Have you come to apply for the teaching position?”

  “Oh, dear no. I am Miss Wheelwright of Birstall, and I wish to determine whether this school might be suitable for my young cousin.” Ellen’s voice exuded wealth, privilege, and refined breeding. “This is my companion Miss Brown.”

  These were the names, and this the story we’d invented in hope of gaining an inspection of the school. The housekeeper—as I assumed her to be—looked us over. We must have passed scrutiny, for she bid us to enter. As soon as I did, the smell hit me: an amalgam of soap, chalk, and damp plaster; of unappetizing foods; of the sweet, rank, urine odor of impoverished children. I was suddenly eight years old again, arriving at the Clergy Daughters’ School at Cowan Bridge. Beyond the vestibule, where Ellen and I stood, a corridor extended between rows of doors. From these issued girlish voices reciting lessons in unison; in them I heard echoes from a bitter chapter of my life.

  The housekeeper ushered Ellen and me into a parlor with dark paintings on the walls and old-fashioned furniture. She said, “I’ll fetch the Reverend Grimshaw.”

  She departed, and we sat on a horsehair sofa. Ellen squeezed my hand. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” she whispered, her eyes sparkling in enjoyment of our adventure.

  I managed a shaky smile and endeavored to forget the school where I and my elder sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, suffered the inhumane deprivation that caused my stunted figure and contributed to their deaths.

  “My dear, what’s wrong?” Ellen gazed anxiously at me. “You look as white and queer as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  There came a step at the door. Silhouetted in the light from the vestibule stood a man. I discerned his tall, upright figure in a frock coat and trousers, his head like a carved capital atop a black column, and the white clerical cravat at his throat. My heart lurched, for here, thought I, was the Reverend William Carus Wilson, evil proprietor of the Clergy Daughters’ School. But of course, as I quickly realized when he wa
lked towards us, this man was not my old enemy. His face, with its loose jowls, lacked the fierce austerity of Carus Wilson’s. Greetings ensued; he introduced himself as the Reverend Grimshaw, and I endured the unpleasant clamminess of his hand shaking my own. I let Ellen do the talking, and when the Reverend Grimshaw sat opposite us, he addressed himself to her.

  “You do realize that this institution is for girls who lack the financial means to obtain an education?” He had, I noticed, limp iron-grey hair and a moist, unhealthy complexion; he smelled of sweat. He gave Ellen a fawning, apologetic smile, his mouth puffy and sensual. “I fear that it is not an appropriate establishment for a child from a family such as yours. The accommodations are very plain.”

  “Oh, I quite understand,” Ellen replied. “My cousin is a distant relative whose parents are in unfortunate circumstances.” Her tone conjured up visions of an illegitimate child needing charity from affluent connections. “I am prepared to contribute towards her education.”

  God bless Ellen for saying what I’d told her to say in the event that the Reverend Grimshaw should question our motives, and for occupying him while I sat sick and tongue-tied.

  “Ah,” he said. “Well, then, perhaps you would like a tour of the school?”

  “Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.” Ellen flashed me a covert, triumphant glance.

  “No trouble at all.” The Reverend Grimshaw rubbed his hands together, as eager to get them on Ellen’s money as I suppose Carus Wilson had been to get the fees that my poor father had paid for his daughters’ schooling.

  When he led us into the first classroom, a teacher was giving an arithmetic lesson to some twenty little girls. Our arrival halted the lesson; the girls stood. The sight of their wan faces and plain frocks reinforced my impression that I had returned to Cowan Bridge. Hollow coughs arose from their ranks, and a shudder passed through me: How well I remembered that sound of tubercular consumption wracking children’s lungs!

  The Reverend Grimshaw bade the lesson resume. As he explained the school’s curriculum to Ellen, I noticed a girl who sat upon a high stool in a corner. She was slender, and her hair dark brown. A sign pinned to her frock bore the word SLATTERN. My chest constricted painfully, for the girl was the very image of my eldest sister. Maria had been a brilliant student, but untidy in her habits, and our teachers had punished her for them in the same manner as this girl. I was glad that Mr. Grimshaw led us out of the classroom before my emotions overcame me.

  “We enforce strict discipline here,” he said. “It teaches the girls respect for authority.”

  I choked back a bitter retort and endured the inspection of another class, where older pupils, some very pretty, labored on fine sewing. But the dormitory nearly shattered my self-control. Here stood rows of narrow beds covered by thin mattresses and ragged counterpanes. The bleak room, with its high ceiling, bare rafters, and but a single fireplace, would be terribly cold in winter, like the dormitory at Cowan Bridge. Every bed seemed occupied by the ghosts of Maria and Elizabeth, growing sicker until they were sent home to die.

  “As you can see, we treat our pupils according to their social station,” the Reverend Grimshaw said to Ellen.

  He radiated the complacency of one who has never known privation and cares not about other people’s suffering. Such a man had been Carus Wilson. Old grief and fresh outrage swelled in me, but I maintained my silence while the Reverend Grimshaw led us outside to a large garden behind the school. It was bordered on two sides by low stone buildings; on the far end, birches obscured the old windmill.

  “Those buildings are quarters for myself and my family and the teachers,” said Mr. Grimshaw. Pointing to an open expanse of ground, he said, “That is the pupils’ recreation area. And beyond is the vegetable garden.” There, girls weeded rows of plants. “Work builds character.”

  I recalled similar pronouncements made by Carus Wilson. I also recalled listening to him sermonize upon the deaths of children who had taken ill at his school: I bless God that he has taken from us the children of whose salvation we have the best hope. He was now beyond my reach, and I could scarcely restrain myself from berating the Reverend Grimshaw in his stead.

  We went to the parlor and drank tea. As Ellen and the Reverend Grimshaw made polite chat, I stared down at my cup in morose silence. How clever and brave I had thought myself when I devised the plan to investigate the school and solve the mystery of Isabel White’s murder! And what had I learned? Nothing—except that I was neither clever nor brave. Unable to discern whether the school was a den of sin or a noble institution, I was indeed the fool that Gilbert White thought me. Yet I couldn’t bear the prospect of defeat.

  Turning to Mr. Grimshaw, I blurted, “Recently I happened to meet a former pupil of this school. Her name was Isabel White. Do you remember her?”

  He stared at me as if the teapot had spoken. Ellen’s face proclaimed her alarm that I would introduce the matter of Isabel in such unsubtle fashion.

  “Isabel White?” Mr. Grimshaw frowned; the perspiration beaded on his forehead. “I don’t believe the name is familiar. You must be mistaken. There’s been no Isabel White in our school.” He pulled from his pocket a gold watch and said, “My heavens, but time passes quickly. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Wheelwright and Miss, er—?” Amidst a flurry of courtesies, he ushered Ellen and me out the door.

  We walked through the woods towards our waiting carriage, and Ellen burst into excited giggles. “Did you see how eager he was to get rid of us after you mentioned Isabel? He remembers her, I have no doubt of it.”

  “His behavior isn’t proof that he was involved in her murder or knows anything about it,” I said. “And fool that I am, I provoked him to expel us before we could learn more.”

  “My dear Charlotte, your plan worked brilliantly!” Ellen took my arm and gave it a comforting pat. “It gained us an inspection of the school.”

  “For all the good it did us. I saw nothing about the place or the people that would seem out of the ordinary in a thousand schools in the kingdom.”

  “I think the Reverend Grimshaw is most sinister and unattractive,” Ellen said with a little shiver. “I wouldn’t put any relation of mine in his charge.”

  “I agree, but alas, our impressions aren’t evidence to connect him with the crime. Besides, I cannot imagine Mr. Grimshaw as the master who seduced and enslaved Isabel.” I favored Gilbert White for that role. “Perhaps Isabel experienced nothing more than the usual privations of boarding school, and it has nothing to do with what happened to her after she left.” I sighed. “I don’t know what else to do to expose her killer.”

  “Oh, you’ll think of something,” Ellen said.

  As we rounded a curve in the path, our carriage came into view. A gig, pulled by a pair of horses, drew up on the road. Two men rode in the open seat. They climbed out and strode towards us. The sight of them—one dark, the other ginger-haired—froze my blood and halted me in my steps. Quickly I dragged Ellen off the path and into the shelter of the woods.

  “My dear, whatever are you doing?” she said.

  I hushed her. The men passed nearly close enough for me to touch them, but they didn’t notice us. They continued up to the school and disappeared from sight.

  “Who were they?” Ellen said. “Why did we hide?”

  “They are the very same men who attacked Anne and me on the train.”

  14

  I WISH I COULD SAY I CONFRONTED MY ATTACKERS AND DELIVERED THEM into the hands of the law. I wish I could say I forced them to reveal their connection with the events surrounding the murder of Isabel White and tell me who killed her. I wish I could say that I left Skipton possessed of the knowledge necessary to thwart the schemes of Isabel’s master.

  But alas! My actions were far less commendable. As we hid in the woods that day, Ellen urged that we leave at once, for those men were too dangerous to confront. I let her rush me into our carriage even as I deplored my cowardice. When I proposed going to the police, she remi
nded me that I could not just walk into a town where we are strangers, accuse people of wrongdoing, and expect to be believed. I had to credit her objections, and my nerves were in such a grievous state that she had no difficulty persuading me to board a train that very day. We parted at Keighley, where she caught a train to Birstall, and I proceeded, with utmost caution, to Haworth.

  When I arrived shortly after nine o’clock that evening, a misty rain veiled the moors. I was exhausted from traveling, tense from looking over my shoulder to see if anyone pursued me, and downhearted because I felt little the wiser than when I’d left. I found Papa, Emily, and Anne kneeling in the study, their heads bowed as they said their evening prayers.

  “Ah, Charlotte,” said Papa. “How happy I am that you’ve come home.”

  Anne looked at Emily. Emily met my gaze with cold indifference: My absence had not softened her ill feelings towards me. I knelt, and we all prayed. Afterward, Papa went to lock the doors. I followed Emily and Anne to the parlor.

  “Don’t you want to hear about my journey?” I asked.

  Emily gave a disdainful sniff. Anne murmured, “Perhaps later.”

  Less angry than hurt by their response, I said, “How is Branwell?”

  “See for yourself,” Emily said. “He’s upstairs.”

  I mounted the stairs, pained by the memory of happier homecomings. I opened the door of Branwell’s room, and the sour stench of illness nauseated me. My brother lay in bed, the covers twisted around his emaciated body, his bloodshot eyes half closed and his lips parted. His chest slowly rose and fell with each faint breath. He had procured laudanum and dosed himself into stupefaction. I left the room, shut the door, sat on the stairs, and wept.

  I wish I could write that Branwell improved in the days that followed, but this wish, too, is in vain. The soporific effects of the laudanum wore off the next morning, and what tremors, violent sickness, and agony assailed him! He pleaded for money to buy more, and when we refused him, he cursed us. Emily remained hostile towards me, and Anne silently grieved at our estrangement. While we were at church the following Sunday, Branwell sneaked out of the house. Two days later, he still was gone. Our fears for him drove all thought of the murder, my adventures, and even Gilbert White from my mind.