The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “What did this intruder look like?” I asked, skeptical.

  “He was tall and dressed in dark clothing,” Branwell said. “That’s all I could see.”

  “Drunken delusions,” was Emily’s scornful pronouncement.

  “There really was an intruder,” Branwell insisted. “He almost killed me!”

  Just then there came a loud crash from the rear of the house. Clattering noises and rapid footsteps were followed by the sound of the back door opening. Papa, my sisters, and I hurried through the kitchen and down the passage to the door, which stood open. We saw, running up the hill behind the parsonage, the dark figure of a man.

  “Stop!” Papa shouted.

  Aiming his pistol out the door, he fired. The shot boomed. The intruder raced onward and vanished over the hill. We exchanged glances of wordless bewilderment, while in the hall, Branwell burst into hysterical laughter.

  “Either you believe me now,” he called, “or Father is shooting at phantoms of my imagination!”

  We helped Branwell upstairs. Papa dressed him in a nightshirt and put him to bed, then fetched the doctor and the constable. The doctor salved and bandaged Branwell’s burns. The constable deduced that the intruder had come in through the front door, which Branwell must have forgotten to lock, and left no trace of his presence other than a broken plate in the kitchen. When at last the men had departed, Papa, Emily, Anne, and I gathered in the parlor.

  “Do you think this was related to the series of attacks on you, Charlotte?” asked Papa.

  Emily spoke in a barely audible voice: “We’ve never had a burglar before.” Huddled in the corner of the sofa, she was so pale that her lips had gone white.

  “This can’t have been an ordinary burglar,” Anne said. “Nothing was taken.”

  A thought struck me. I ran upstairs to the study and looked on the desk. I searched through the books and papers atop it, then went back to the parlor. “Isabel White’s book is gone. The intruder must have stolen it.”

  My family absorbed the news with the air of people already numbed by too many shocks. The intrusion was clearly another episode arising from Isabel’s murder, exactly the sort of event I had been anticipating since John Slade accosted me on the moor.

  “They were in this house,” Emily said. “They handled our things.” Panic tinged her voice. “Maybe they even came into our rooms while we were sleeping.”

  That evildoers had invaded our home horrified me no less than Emily. Papa stood at the table, reloading his pistol; his hands shook. Anne sat on the sofa and put her arm around Emily.

  “Branwell could have been killed,” Anne said, “perhaps the rest of us, too.” She asked me, “Do you think it was John Slade? He knew Isabel sent you the package, because you told him. He wanted it badly enough to come to Haworth. When he didn’t get it, he could have decided to steal it tonight.”

  I nodded, as that explanation had occurred to me. “Mr. Slade does fit Branwell’s vague description of the intruder. But he thinks I gave the package to Mrs. White. Therefore, he wouldn’t have come here to get it.” In spite of my rage at his deception, I found that I wanted to believe Mr. Slade innocent. How my feelings for him managed to persist against my will! “He doesn’t know I have a transcript of Isabel’s story.” It was locked safe in my drawer. For once in my life I was thankful for my poor sight, which had required Ellen to read aloud the words Isabel had written and me to copy them out in case I should want to study them at a later date.

  “What’s going to happen next?” Emily demanded of me.

  “I fear that whoever stole the book won’t stop at that. They must know I’ve read what Isabel wrote. They could very well suppose she also entrusted other information to me.” Distraught, I twisted my hands and paced the floor. “And if they think it’s information that endangers them or their plans, they will come back for me.”

  Emily looked terror-stricken, and Anne was anxious. Papa said, “What is to be done, Charlotte?”

  “Shall we ask the police for help?” said Anne.

  “They can’t capture our attackers or thwart the schemes of Isabel’s master based on the little information we have,” I said. “Nor can they stand guard over us day and night.”

  “Then what do you propose we do?” Emily cried.

  I liked that she and Anne appeared ready to forget our quarrel and unite with me against our enemies. But I liked less the plan which I had in mind, although it seemed our only hope.

  “We must turn to John Slade,” I said.

  Anne regarded me with disbelief. “After he misrepresented himself and terrified you—and may have murdered Isabel, among others? My dear Charlotte!”

  “If he is an agent of the Crown as he claims, then he would have the wherewithal to help us, as well as to protect us.” And despite my antagonism toward Mr. Slade, my heartbeat quickened at the thought of seeing him again.

  “Can he truly be an agent?” Papa said doubtfully. “How can we know he’s not an imposter?”

  “He might have lied to you again,” Anne said.

  Though I shared these same reservations, the night’s events forced me to appeal to this man I reviled for dashing my hopes as well as using me. “We needn’t take his word for what he is,” I said, and I told them how Mr. Slade had claimed that Dr. Dury could vouch for him.

  Papa pondered the surprise of his and Mr. Slade’s mutual connection with Dr. Dury, his old schoolmate, a don at St. John’s College in Cambridge, where they had studied together. “I’ve not seen Nicholas in many years, although we’ve corresponded. He has an unimpeachable reputation. Charlotte, we must consult him about Mr. Slade at once.”

  16

  PAPA AND I JOURNEYED THE NEXT DAY TO CAMBRIDGE, SITE OF THE famed university. Across this ancient town spread the various colleges, reminiscent of medieval castles, with towers, spires, and fortified gates. Venerable walls, adorned by sculpture and ivy, sheltered gardens and cloisters. Water flowed from elegant fountains; stained glass gleamed like gems; and stone bridges arched over the swans and punts drifting upon the River Cam. The afternoon of our arrival was rainy, the town devoid of the black-gowned fellows and students who flock the streets during the academic terms. Papa led me to St. John’s College, which occupies four magnificent red brick quadrangles with profuse battlements, dormers, and chimneys. We were fortunate to find Papa’s friend Dr. Dury in, for we had arrived without invitation or notice. He received us in his rooms at the top of a narrow staircase.

  “My dear Patrick,” he exclaimed in warm greeting. “After all this time! And this must be your daughter Charlotte.”

  He was Papa’s age, rotund of figure and hardly taller than I. Thin grey hair fringed his scalp. His eyes were bright blue and keen-sighted in a cheerful, rosy face.

  “Can it be forty years since we last met?” Papa said.

  “Indeed,” Dr. Dury said, “but a mutual connection, John Slade, has alerted me to expect you and Miss Brontë. Please join me for tea. We have important business to discuss.”

  His parlor was paneled in mellow wood. Books filled the shelves, covered the desk, and lay piled on the mantel and floor. We sat in armchairs before a crackling fire. A servant brought the tea, and Dr. Dury toasted crumpets.

  “Being here brings back so many memories,” Papa said, “that I can almost imagine myself a raw youth again.”

  Dr. Dury chuckled. “I’ll never forget my first sight of you, arriving from Ireland with your great height, flaming red hair, and strong brogue. You certainly stood out among the pupils.”

  “Ah, to be sizars together again,” Papa said.

  He and Dr. Dury had both belonged to this group of impoverished young intellectuals who worked as tutors in exchange for their education and board. “At least we need no longer sleep on the floor of a crowded attic,” Dr. Dury said.

  “Nor study with our feet wrapped in straw to keep them warm,” Papa agreed, sipping tea.

  “Despite the privations, you graduated in the first c
lass,” Dr. Dury said. “But it’s the present, not the past, that concerns us now.” He turned to me. “What has happened that you need the services of my friend John Slade?”

  I briefly described my recent experiences and watched his kind face grow grave. “We must know whether Mr. Slade is what he claims to be. Are you well enough acquainted with him to assure us?”

  “Indeed,” said Dr. Dury. “I first met Slade when he came to study here in 1831. He was the most outstanding pupil I’ve ever had. His father was an army colonel, and his family traveled widely. Slade had a gift for language and was proficient in French, Italian, German, and Russian. He possessed great intellect and a passion for learning that went beyond the theology he studied. He aspired towards a career in the Church, but he took extra classes on history, natural science, economics, and politics. We had furious debates about those subjects during his tutorials. Slade also excelled in fencing and shooting. He had such a zest for life.”

  These were good things to hear of Mr. Slade; yet doubt remained. How had this paragon turned from the Church to a life of underhanded pursuits?

  “But he had a wild side.” Dr. Drury shook his head regretfully. “He liked women, drink, and gaming. When he wounded a towns-man in a duel, he was almost sent down. His father’s influence saved his college career. He was ordained in 1835 and obtained a curacy in Wiltshire, but lasted only two years. Life as a country cleric was too quiet for him.”

  I was interested to learn that Mr. Slade had once been a clergyman, yet not surprised, for he had convincingly played his role as the Reverend Gilbert White. I had sensed the wildness in Mr. Slade, but saw no remnant of the boisterous young reveler. What had changed him?

  “Slade then joined the army of the East India Company,” Dr. Dury said. “That, as you may know, is the great mercantile concern that trades in the Eastern Hemisphere. It earns a fortune from cotton, spices, indigo, silks, and tea. It governs India in the name of the Crown, and its army protects the colonial territories and citizens of the British Empire. Slade served the company in Kabul.”

  Dr. Dury explained that this savage kingdom of mountains, plains, deserts, steppes, and tribal chiefs had become during those years a battleground in the rivalry between Britain and Russia, who fought for control of Turkestan. When Russia had earlier supported Persia’s siege of the Kingdom of Kabul, the Crown feared that the region would fall completely under Russian influence, threatening Britain’s Indian empire. A British invasion of Kabul was therefore mounted.

  “The East fascinated Slade. His letters were filled with his discoveries about the culture, and his flair for language was put to good use. He dressed as a native holy man and wandered enemy territory, gathering news and surveying the land. He brought back valuable information on enemy activities. But the trouble there undid his military career.”

  The East India Company’s army had entered Kabul in 1839 and installed upon the throne a king sympathetic to the British, Dr. Dury related. Insurrections broke out among the natives, and the British occupation failed. “John Slade was discharged and returned to England. His talents and his exploits in the East recommended him to men in high places. He became an agent of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”

  That mysterious organization is the subject of much rumor and speculation; few facts about it are known. Frowned upon by polite society, it reeks of the treacherous spy methods practiced by Continental police, so repugnant to the honest British. Yet it has always borne a whiff of glamour that appeals to me.

  “Slade infiltrated radical societies in Europe, reporting their activities to his superiors in the Foreign Office,” Dr. Dury said, then paused and pondered. “Something happened to him in France. His letters stopped for a year, and we lost contact. When we renewed our friendship in 1845, I found him drastically altered. He had become serious, solitary, and focused on his work to the exclusion of all else. He never told me what troubled him, and his manner discouraged my asking. But I can assure you that Slade remains in the employ of the Secret Service to this day. Reliable sources tell me that he is one of its best agents and defenders of the Crown. I believe his character to be strong, steady, and virtuous.”

  “That is high praise indeed, and proof enough for me that Mr. Slade is what he has represented himself to be,” said Papa. “What say you, Charlotte?”

  Our host’s commendation had removed much, but not all, the doubt in my mind. “Can we really trust Mr. Slade?” I asked Dr. Dury. “Should we ask for his help?”

  Dr. Dury contemplated the fire; its intermittent glow played upon his pensive countenance. “I know persons who have placed their trust in Slade and lived to thank him.” Dr. Dury lifted his keen blue gaze to me. “But keep in mind that a spy lives by treachery.”

  This advice did not quench my misgivings, yet swayed me in favor of Mr. Slade. Furthermore, I knew not what else to do to protect my family and prevent worse disaster. “Then we shall accept Mr. Slade’s help,” I decided.

  Even as I spoke, the earth seemed to fragment under me. What business had I to involve myself with a man who belonged to such a different world? I recalled that day on the moor with him, and I felt again the fierce, savage excitement. What forces would my decision unleash?

  Papa nodded. “It is for the best, Charlotte.”

  “Very well,” Dr. Dury said, though not without reluctance. “I shall contact Slade, and you will hear from him soon.”

  17

  JOHN SLADE RETURNED TO HAWORTH ON 30 JULY.

  My family rose early that Sunday for church. As Emily, Anne, and I took our seats in our pew, villagers filed into the galleries, and the sonorous music of the organ echoed. Papa preached while the sexton walked the aisles and awakened slumberers with a tap of his long staff. A sudden stir arose in the congregation; I turned and saw the man who had entered the church.

  Although a letter from him had prepared me for his arrival, it did not lessen my shock at seeing Mr. Slade again. My heart began to pound. Mr. Slade, wearing black clerical garb, paused and looked around while curious villagers scrutinized him. His gaze lit on me, and I felt that all the world had acquired a new life. The sunlit arched windows and the flowers on the altar seemed brighter; Papa’s voice reading the Gospels sounded more melodious. I breathed intoxication from the very air. Mr. Slade bowed slightly, then seated himself in an empty pew. I averted my face, overwhelmed by shame that I would experience profane sensations in church. In the wake of my shame galloped fear. What had I done by agreeing that Mr. Slade should come?

  When the service ended, my sisters and I rose. Mr. Slade walked up the aisle to meet Papa. “Greetings, Uncle Patrick,” said Mr. Slade. “ ’Tis I, John Brunty, your nephew from Ireland.”

  I recognized the story that his letter had said would disguise his true identity and explain his presence among us. He spoke in an Irish brogue so perfect that I would easily have believed his ruse, had I not known better.

  “Welcome,” Papa said, shaking Mr. Slade’s hand. He studied his “nephew” and seemed to approve of what he saw. As Emily, Anne, and I approached, he called, “Girls, meet your cousin.”

  Papa introduced me first, and so flustered was I that I looked up at Mr. Slade barely long enough to see the conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. He said, “Hello, Cousin Charlotte.” I felt my hand gripped by his, and a fresh onslaught of emotion. Now that my rage at his deceit had passed, my other feelings towards him had become unbridled. The strange intimacy fostered by our encounter on the moors, and my newfound knowledge of him, had increased my desire for his regard. And without my anger to shield me from him, I was defenseless.

  Next Papa presented Emily, who stared at the floor and bobbed a silent curtsy at Mr. Slade. Anne met him as calmly and pleasantly as if he were really our cousin. “Please come with us to the house,” she invited.

  Exiting the church, we greeted villagers and walked up the hill. The church bells sang across the village, the sun turned the moors golden, and all was peaceful except my heart.
<
br />   The Reverend Arthur Nicholls hovered near us, eyeing Mr. Slade with alarm and me with concern. “Is there adequate room at the parsonage for your nephew?” he asked Papa. “Maybe he would be more comfortable at the Black Bull Inn.”

  I supposed Mr. Nicholls felt possessive towards my family and jealous of the newcomer. “We’ll manage,” I said tartly, though I quaked at the idea of having Mr. Slade under my roof.

  It was strange to see him drinking tea in the parsonage. He sat in a chair beside Papa’s, opposite the sofa occupied by Anne and me. Emily and Keeper sat on the floor. Keeper eyed Mr. Slade with distrust.

  Mr. Slade got right to business: “We must lose no time. The sooner we apprehend the villain, the sooner you will all be safe. Please tell me what you’ve learned about Isabel White.”

  I described my visits to Isabel’s mother and the Charity School. I nearly quailed under his intent gaze. Discovering the truth about Mr. Slade had rendered him even more handsome, and although he was now friend instead of foe, I knew that my feelings must remain unrequited, for what could a man of his accomplishments want with a dreary spinster? As I told Mr. Slade about Isabel’s diary, I realized that after he knew everything I did, I would be of no more value to him.

  “May I see your transcript of the diary?” Mr. Slade asked, upon learning that the diary itself had been stolen.

  “First tell me what you know of this business that we do not,” I said, deliberately withholding information.

  He obliged, and his account furnished the facts that I have previously related about his actions while we were apart. After he finished I said, “Now what is your plan?”

  Slade raised an eyebrow at my reluctance to cooperate, but he said, “Agents from the Foreign Office will spy on the Charity School and attempt to identify the men from the train. They’ll also keep watch on the household of Joseph Lock, the gun maker, and look for clues regarding the evil scheme that Isabel mentioned in her diary and the identity of her master.” He turned to Papa. “In the meantime, I shall stay here and guard your family. I believe the villain will eventually try to attack your daughter again. When he comes, I shall capture him.”