On the second day, I walked the moors, thinking perhaps he might have wandered there and lost his way. The afternoon was cool and blustery. As I trudged up the hills, Emily’s brown bulldog, Keeper, bounded alongside me, and the landscape began to restore my spirits. Those who do not know the moors think them dreary, but I find in them great beauty and comfort. The sky, animated by changeable weather, seems a living companion in my solitude. I watched billowy clouds race across a heavenly blue firmament, their shadows drifting on the sunlit land. The heather had begun blooming, and its purple blossoms misted the grey-brown hills. Swallows flitted between gnarled thorn trees; sheep grazed. Ivy and ferns grew on drystone walls; violets and primroses clustered in hedge bottoms. The wind breathed sweet flower scents, and Keeper chased butterflies.
We were heading for the waterfall that was a favorite place of my brother and sisters and myself, a place where Branwell might have sought refuge, when I heard a voice call my name. I saw a tall man striding towards me. He was dressed in black, with a white clerical collar; the wind whipped his tousled black hair. Terror struck ice into my bones. It was Gilbert White, the man who had deceived me, the man responsible for the attacks on myself, the murder of Isabel White, and a scheme that would bring disaster upon the kingdom. And I was alone on the moors with him.
“Miss Brontë,” he called, raising a hand in greeting.
I whirled and began running for my life. “Keeper! Come!” I shouted.
We raced up and down slopes. From behind me I heard the rustling of grass crushed under rapid footsteps. I looked over my shoulder and saw Gilbert White cresting the hill; his long legs carried him faster than I could run. As I scrambled over a wall, crows wheeled overhead, their caws mocking me. My heart hammered; breathless fatigue rendered my limbs awkward. I reached the birches and alders that bordered Sladen Beck. I plunged between the trees, stumbled down the bank, and crouched to hide. Below me, the stream’s clear, rushing water gurgled round the rocks where my brother and sisters and I had once played. The waterfall splashed down a staircase of boulders. But here I found no sanctuary, for Gilbert White burst through the trees and alighted on the bank above me.
“Miss Brontë, why did you run from me?” Hardly even winded, he spoke in surprise and bafflement.
I reared up, panic-stricken. Keeper growled. I was glad of his protection. “Don’t come any closer,” I said to Mr. White in a voice intended to warn.
He hesitated, glanced at Keeper, and said, “I must have startled you by coming suddenly upon you like that. Please forgive me.”
The very presence of him defiled this private place, and anger gave me courage. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I wondered if anything had happened to you,” Mr. White said.
“Having heard not a word from you, I came to visit, and I saw you walking up the hill, and I followed.” Now he seemed to realize that I felt something other than mere surprise at his unexpected visit. “I thought you would be glad to see me. Why do you look at me with such animosity?”
His eyes were as clear and brilliant as I remembered; his sharp features as compelling; the vigor of his body as masculine. I was ashamed that I had ever admired him or desired his regard. I was mortified to realize that I still did.
“You lied to me.” My voice quavered with hatred as well as fear. I recalled my dreams about him, and I experienced afresh the painful disillusionment I had suffered at his deceit. With great satisfaction did I see his dismay.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Your name is not Gilbert White,” I said. “You’re not Isabel White’s brother. I was taken in by you at first, but I know better now. I also know you’ve been spying on me.”
“Spying on you? Why, Miss Brontë, I’ve done no such thing.” He took a step towards me, but when Keeper snarled, he moved back up the bank. “How can you think I would deceive you?” He feigned incredulity. “Where did you get these ideas?”
“I received a package that Isabel sent me before she died, and I went to Bradford to give it to her mother,” I said. “She told me that Isabel was an only child.”
He frowned, suddenly disturbed. “A package from Isabel? Did you see what was in it?”
That he should care foremost about the package! “You killed Isabel,” I said. “It was you I saw struggling with her in that alley. Your accomplices tried to kidnap me. You rescued me only to cultivate my gratitude, such that I might then do whatever you asked.” I saw him stiffen and draw back, his face registering chagrin that he could no longer play me for a fool. “Who are you?” I demanded. “What do you want with me?”
Clouds gathered in the sky, and cold shadow doused the water’s sparkling light. My adversary clenched his fists, and terror gripped my heart, for I expected him to strike me dead. But instead, he half turned away from me, gazing at the water. I might then have fled, yet I did not. I felt myself part of a story whose ending I must know, even at the price of my life.
The rushing water sounded loud in the silence between us. The wind quickened across the moors; I smelled rain. Starlings twittered, agitated by the impending storm. Keeper whined. At last my companion turned to me, and I beheld a stranger. Gone was the polite, humble cleric Gilbert White. This man’s face was stern and formidable, his dark depths no longer masked by artifice. For the first time, I was seeing him as he really was.
“You have accused me of many evils, Miss Brontë, but I’m guilty of only one.” His voice had altered to match his true self; the false Northern accent dropped away. “I did not murder Isabel White. The only harm I’ve done you is to win your friendship by false pretenses. I hope that when I explain why, you’ll excuse my deception.”
I knew not what he could say to earn my forgiveness; but I waited, for his gaze compelled me to hear him.
“My real name is John Slade,” he said. “I’m a secret agent of Her Majesty’s Foreign Office.”
I stared, my mouth agape. I had heard of the Foreign Office, which managed the nation’s affairs abroad; I had heard tales of the men who spied behind enemy lines, consorted with savages, and lived by their wits. A thrill of excitement coursed through me, but my distrust of him prevailed.
“Why should I believe you,” I said, “after you’ve lied to me already? Why should I believe you’re not still lying?”
John Slade answered my scorn with cool composure: “You are a woman of rational mind. Listen to what I have to say, then decide whether to believe me.”
I shook my head in defiance; but a hint of a smile touched his mouth. “You can go if you wish,” he said. “But you are also a woman of insatiable curiosity. Shall I begin, then?”
Silence was my grudging assent. Too well did he know me!
“Since 1842 I’ve worked in France and Italy,” Mr. Slade said. “Those countries are rife with secret societies made up of radicals whose purpose is to dethrone kings, foment wars, and spread revolution across Europe. My job was to infiltrate the societies. This I did by pretending to be a radical myself. I gained the trust of the leaders and reported their plans to my superiors. It was in Paris last year that I met Isabel White. She was a governess for an English diplomat’s family. She was also a courier who conveyed money and messages between the French societies and their counterparts in Britain.”
Amazement filled me. Though I’d known that Isabel had secrets, never had I imagined such a life for her. But I cautioned myself against taking Mr. Slade at his word.
“I befriended Miss White because I wanted to know who was employing her and financing the radicals,” Slade went on. “She confided to me that she felt like a traitor for helping their cause, and she wanted to stop. I decided I could trust her to help me instead. That was in the beginning of this year, when it looked as though revolution would come to England. I told Miss White my true identity and hired her to work as my informant. When she had messages to deliver, she would copy them into the margins of old books. We met in crowded public places, where she wou
ld slip the books to me.”
I thought of the book of sermons, which lay in the upstairs study at the parsonage. How would Mr. Slade know that Isabel wrote messages in books unless he was indeed an agent of the Crown and had done what he said? But Isabel’s writing made no mention of secret societies, and if she had intended that book for Slade, why had she sent it to me? Still, his mention of messages in books weakened my suspicions.
He paused, scrutinizing me in an apparent effort to know my thoughts; then he proceeded: “Miss White gave me names of French radicals and Chartist agitators, as well as their plans for acts of violence, but she refused to tell me who was employing her to work for them. From hints she dropped, I deduced that she feared him too much to expose him.”
A chill ran through me. This unidentified employer could be the man Isabel had called Master in her confession.
“In February of this year,” said Mr. Slade, “Miss White said she had an especially important message for me. We agreed to meet at Notre Dame Cathedral, where she would give me a book containing the message. I arrived at the appointed time, but she never came. She had vanished from Paris. I feared that her employer had discovered she was giving away his secrets.”
Mr. Slade regarded me closely as he continued. “I traced her to England, and I learned that she was a governess in the house of Joseph Lock, a Birmingham gunmaker. I kept secret watch upon Lock. At first I thought him to be directing subversive activities in England and abroad. My suspicions grew when I discovered that he was smuggling guns out of England through an intermediary, a China trader named Isaiah Fearon. But Lock shot himself dead the day before Isabel’s murder. I later found Isaiah Fearon strangled in his warehouse. I now believe that all three were players in a conspiracy devised by a leader whose identity remains unknown. I believe Lock killed himself because he wanted to get out, and he saw suicide as the only way. This leader had Isabel White and Isaiah Fearon killed because he suspected them of disloyalty. It’s my wish to capture him, because I’m certain he’ll commit other, far worse, crimes unless I do. And it’s in your interest to help me, Miss Brontë.”
I could only gaze at him in alarm at learning of the string of violent deaths.
“Isabel White knew this leader, and she could have exposed him.” Mr. Slade moved closer to me, until Keeper’s growl halted his steps. “So, perhaps, could Fearon. They were weaknesses in the barrier he created to protect himself. He has eliminated those weaknesses—but one remains.”
Distant thunder rumbled; the wind keened as the sky turned greenish grey. I was stricken by Mr. Slade’s suggestion that I could be the next to die. My sense of adventure had blinded me to the danger I had stumbled into.
“I must find the leader of the conspiracy,” he said, his voice edged with determination. “You can draw him into the open. What say you, Miss Brontë? Will you help me trap him?”
He had observed that the villain was after me, and he wanted to use me as bait to catch his quarry. He clearly expected me to agree; but I said, “When you rescued me in Leeds, you were not on your way to visit your mother. Why were you on that train?”
“I was going to Bradford. I wanted to learn what Mrs. White knew about her daughter’s associates. But I was also following you, because I suspected that Isabel’s enemy would make some move against you, and I wanted to protect you.”
This was a reasonable explanation; yet Mr. Slade’s glibness perturbed me. I did not like that he thought me so gullible as to trust him again. “Did you also stay by me in Leeds and on the train home because you wanted to protect me?” I said, sounding more hopeful and less challenging than I intended.
“Yes,” Mr. Slade said, “but I also enjoyed your company. I beg you to forgive me, and I hope we can be friends again.”
When Mr. Slade extended his hand to me, when he flashed his rare, dazzling smile, fury consumed my heart. He might have won me by logic, but not by calculated charm. Wounded pride swayed my judgment.
“Should I believe you came by all this information as innocently as you say you did?” I flared, backing away from Mr. Slade.
Withdrawing his hand, Mr. Slade frowned at my belligerence. “It’s the truth.”
“So you say!” I laughed in derision as the wind dashed rain-drops at us. “But I think you know those things about Isabel because you were her master. You discovered she was betraying you, and you killed her. Now you pose as a spy so I will reveal the content of Isabel’s package. Well, I’ll have nothing to do with you!”
I turned and clambered up the bank; Keeper followed me. Mr. Slade hurried after us, saying, “Wait, Miss Brontë.”
“Leave me alone!” I screamed in panic.
I thrashed through the trees, tripping on my skirts. If I didn’t escape, he would kill me, hide my body on the moors, and no one would ever know what had become of me.
“Please forgive me if it seems I’ve trifled with you, but my feelings of friendship towards you are genuine,” he called after me urgently. “I am an agent of the Crown. If you want proof of that—or of my good character—we’ve a mutual connection who can provide it. Do you know Dr. Nicholas Dury? He’s a friend of your father’s. He’ll vouch for me. Just ask him.”
I had heard Papa speak of Dury; but Mr. Slade’s mention of him inspired terror rather than trust in me. If Mr. Slade had discovered Dury, his spying upon my family was extensive indeed. That he thought I would accept his reference without bothering to verify it enraged me all the more.
“I’ll hear no more lies!” I shouted.
Now we were racing across open land, beneath turbulent dark clouds. The howling wind swept the grasses into waves like the sea, and rain lashed me in torrents. Mr. Slade caught my cloak, and I cried out. A brilliant vein of lightning split the heavens; thunder quaked the earth.
“Keeper!” I called. “Save me!”
I heard the bulldog barking. Mr. Slade turned me towards him and grasped my shoulders. “I’m not the one you should fear.” His face, streaming with rain and afire with intent, was close to mine. “I can help you if you’ll help me.”
I screamed, but the storm drowned my voice. I writhed and flailed. His hands restrained mine and I clawed his wrists. Drenched from the rain, scourged by the wind, we struggled together. Mr. Slade shouted words that I ignored. I tore my hand loose and struck his face. Blood spurted from his lip, and horrifying impulses leapt in me. I wanted to press my mouth to Mr. Slade’s, to taste his blood. I wanted to surrender to him so that I might feel pleasure beyond my experience. Though fury blazed in his eyes and his grip on my arms was cruel, at that moment I feared myself more than I did Mr. Slade. With all my strength I twisted free of him. I stumbled backward, so shaken I could barely stand. Mr. Slade advanced on me as lightning seared the sky and thunder boomed. He was breathing hard, his white collar stained with blood, his expression ominous.
“Keeper!” I screamed. “Attack!”
Barking and growling, the dog launched himself at Mr. Slade’s throat. Mr. Slade flung up his arms to ward off the assault. Keeper’s paws struck against Mr. Slade’s chest, and he fell backward. Savage delight filled me. I turned and ran for home.
15
KEEPER AND I ARRIVED HOME DRENCHED AND SHIVERING. MY family was sitting at tea, and my appearance provoked alarmed questions about what had happened. I described meeting John Slade, his bizarre tale of espionage, and how Keeper had defended me—though I did not confess those feelings I preferred to keep secret.
Emily hurried to embrace her dog. “Did that man hurt you?” she cried, clearly more concerned about him than me.
“Where is John Slade now?” Anne asked.
I said I didn’t know.
“Well, let us hope he is gone, and there will be no more trouble,” Papa said.
That seemed a rather insufficient response to what had just occurred, but there was nothing else to be done at the moment. All through the evening, I waited in dread. For what, I did not know.
That night, while we were as
leep, Branwell came home. I never learned where he had been. But my brother unwittingly influenced the course of events.
A thunderous commotion awakened me. I heard, from downstairs, someone screaming, “Help! Help!”
“Branwell?” I cried, glad that he had returned home at last.
I hurried from my room. Emily, Anne, and Papa joined me on the landing. My sisters looked frightened. Papa clutched his pistol. Peering down the stairs, we all exclaimed in horror. Branwell thrashed on the hall floor, wrapped in flames.
“I’m burning in the fires of hell!” he shrieked.
We rushed down the stairs. Emily ran to the kitchen, fetched a bucket of water, and hurled it at Branwell. The splash doused the flames. He sat up, sputtering and dripping, clad in the charred remains of his clothes, his thin body shivering.
Papa crouched beside him, asking querulously, “Where have you been? What have you done to yourself?”
“He’s been drinking. I can smell it on him.” Emily gazed at Branwell in disgust. “He obviously sneaked into the house, went to sleep, and left a candle lit and set himself on fire again. Then he panicked and tumbled downstairs.”
Some two years ago, Branwell had nearly burned to death in his bed. I said, “Let’s take him upstairs. He doesn’t seem to have broken anything. The burns on his arms and legs don’t look serious, but still, the doctor ought to examine him.”
When Papa and I moved to raise Branwell to his feet, he batted our hands away. “No!” he cried, his eyes wild. “This was no accident. There was an intruder in the study. He attacked me!”
The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 13
