The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  As we all rose, Lord Unwin bowed with mocking courtesy to me. “I hope for your sake that henceforth Mr. Slade will do better at protecting you than he did in Brussels.”

  Mr. Slade and I passed four days in Haworth—days that were uneventful yet strained with the tense pitch of waiting. On the last morn, Mr. Slade accompanied me on my visits throughout the parish, which I had shamefully neglected of late. He again sported the clerical garb and the guise of my cousin John from Ireland. He walked by my side, carrying the basket of food for the needy, across moors in their full summer glory. Flowers colored the cottage gardens and the hedgerows; thrushes swooped over meadows where fat sheep grazed. The sky was such a serene blue that I could almost forget the dangers that menaced my world.

  “This is the existence that would have been mine had I not chosen a different path after I took my orders,” Mr. Slade said.

  Once more he appeared such a convincing clergyman that I could well imagine him as the vicar of some country parish. “Have you ever regretted your choice?”

  “I didn’t when I was younger. To tread an unvarying routine, to be confined within narrow environs, seemed repellent to me then.” Mr. Slade gazed across the hills that receded in hazy green swells. “Yet now, after all I’ve seen and done, I can understand the value of a life spent ministering to souls rather than adventuring in foreign lands. I find pleasure, instead of boredom, in England’s peaceful countryside.”

  As we descended a slope towards town, I reflected that while Slade had come to appreciate the pleasures of a village parish, I had developed a taste for intrigue. The divide between us had narrowed. But I again recalled what Mr. Slade had said about Jane Eyre, and his implication that a man like him could never love a woman like me. The happiness he’d expressed on the ship must have resulted not from our comradeship but from the natural end to his mourning for his dead wife. I couldn’t know whether my regard for him was any less unrequited than before our trip to Belgium. I did know that this time we had together was but a transient interlude.

  “What will happen when the villain contacts me?” I asked.

  “He’ll instruct you as to where to meet him. My superiors will use the information to find and capture him.”

  After the villain was caught, the Foreign Office would have no further need of me, and Mr. Slade would have no reason to dally in my vicinity. I couldn’t wish to prolong our mission, or for England to remain in danger, in order that the dreaded separation would be postponed; yet the thought of ending our association opened a chasm of emptiness and anguish before me.

  Stepping back from the edge of the chasm, I said, “What if the information is insufficient to find the villain? Must I do his bidding and go to him?”

  “Indeed not,” Mr. Slade said with firm resolve. “One way or another, we’ll get him without endangering you.”

  Yet his reassurance didn’t negate the possibility I feared. “Suppose I did go. What would happen?”

  Mr. Slade gave me a look that scorned what he thought was unnecessary speculation, but he humored me: “You wouldn’t go alone. I, and other agents, would follow you.”

  “And after I arrive at my destination?”

  “We would remain within your reach and protect you from the villain until his capture.”

  “What should I do until then?” I said. “How should I behave that he would fail to see me as a decoy to draw him out of hiding?”

  “Just be Miss Charlotte Brontë, the humble governess,” Mr. Slade said. “That’s what he thinks you are. He’ll never know otherwise.”

  I hated to think that was how Mr. Slade viewed me too. “What might he want me to do for him?”

  “Whatever it is, you won’t have to do it, because we’ll have him in chains first,” Mr. Slade said as we traversed the village along Main Street. Sunshine brightened the grey stone houses. “But this is idle talk. Don’t worry yourself. You won’t be going near that criminal. Besides, he hasn’t even summoned you yet.”

  Walking the road uphill towards the parsonage, we met the postman. He handed me a letter that struck ice down my spine. It was enclosed in a plain envelope addressed to me in the same elegant script as the letter that the villain had sent me via M. Heger in Brussels. I opened it with trembling hands. Inside I found banknotes, a railway timetable, and a letter that read:

  My dear Miss Brontë,

  How pleased I am that you have accepted my offer. Please take the train to Cornwall that I have marked in the timetable. You will receive further instructions at the station in Penzance. I wish you a safe journey.

  28

  WHEN WRITING A FICTITIOUS STORY, ONE SHOULD ALWAYS choose the most exciting possible course for the story to follow. Characters in a book should experience action rather than inertia, and thrills rather than contentment. How fitting, therefore, that what I would write in fiction is what transpired in actuality. But life, unlike fiction, guarantees no happy ending. The dangers I faced were not mere words that could be expunged by the scribble of a pen. The villain who had summoned me was not harmless ink on paper but flesh and blood.

  These notions haunted me as I journeyed by rail towards Penzance. That town is located in Cornwall, the county at England’s southwest extremity. Dread of an evil, ruthless man sank deeper into my bones while I traveled past fishing villages that clung to cliffs above the glittering blue sea. In meadows green and gold beneath the southern sun rose dark stone pillars, monuments built by ancient folk for mysterious rituals. The ruins of Roman fortifications dotted the countryside. This was the land where King Arthur was born at Tintagel. Would that I were an ordinary traveler, come to explore the scenes of legend!

  A casual observer might suppose I journeyed by myself; but Mr. Slade had kept his promise that I should not go unaccompanied. He rode, disguised, somewhere on the train. At all times seated near me was a Foreign Office agent, duty bound to protect me. Other agents had been dispatched to Penzance to arrange for the surveillance and capture of our quarry. Yet I felt as alone as if I had entered another world. How I wish I had heeded the objections raised by Papa, Emily, Anne, and Slade when they learned I’d been summoned!

  “Dear Charlotte, you mustn’t go,” Anne had said.

  “How else will we locate the villain?” I countered.

  “We now know he is in Cornwall,” said Papa. “Let Mr. Slade and his colleagues seek him out.”

  “He could be anywhere in an area thousands of acres in breadth,” I said. “Or perhaps he’s not there at all. Perhaps the instructions I receive in Penzance will send me on to some other, unknown place where he awaits me.”

  “Mr. Slade can intercept the instructions,” Emily said.

  “But what if the villain sends a henchman to deliver the instructions only to me?” I said.

  “We can watch the station for anyone who looks to be waiting for you,” Mr. Slade said. “When he leaves, we can follow him to his master.”

  “That would do very well, if you pick the right person,” I said. “Bear in mind that he may not know where his master is, and may only have orders to deliver me to some place to be fetched later by someone else.”

  “He can direct us to the next link in the chain leading to the villain,” Mr. Slade said.

  “If I don’t appear,” I said, “the villain will know that something has gone awry with his plans. He’ll go deeper into hiding.”

  “Even worse, he may deduce that Charlotte betrayed him and seek revenge,” Emily said, reluctantly taking my side.

  “We shall all be in more danger than before.” Worry shadowed Anne’s face.

  “And no one can recognize him except me,” I said. “I have at least heard his voice.”

  Papa nodded, unhappy but persuaded by our logic. Together my family and I convinced Mr. Slade that I should obey the summons. I must confess that I did so for other reasons than those I’d spoken, and not only out of a desire to protect Britain. Although Isabel White had been reduced to a small portion of a larger concern, I s
till felt a duty to gain justice for her. My sense of obligation extended to Mr. Slade. If the villain remained free, Mr. Slade would bear the blame. Furthermore, going to Cornwall would prolong my association with him the only way I knew how.

  Hence, we traveled to London to report our plan to his superiors and procure their aid. We expected opposition from Lord Unwin, but received none. The murders at the Paradise Club had outraged the government’s highest echelons. Pressure to apprehend the culprit had been brought to bear upon Lord Unwin. His own welfare was more important to him than my safety, and his need to win favor among his superiors outweighed the risk that Mr. Slade might fail him again. Therefore, he quickly supplied all the helpers and funds that Mr. Slade requested.

  Now, on 29 August, the train approached Penzance. The village climbed the hills in tiers of whitewashed stone houses around Mount’s Bay. A causeway extended to St. Michael’s Mount, a rocky islet crowned by a castle. Seabirds screeched from rooftops and harbor; brick chimneys arose from tin mines. Grey clouds blanketed the sky; the fishing fleet drifted on the lead-colored ocean. Through the open window blew the smells of sea, fish, and tar; the misty drizzle tasted of salt. My dread expanded so large in me that I almost suffocated. In the station, I faltered onto the platform amidst citizens who spoke the strange Cornish dialect. Suddenly a man jostled me. He pressed into my hand a small, folded square of paper.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  No sooner did I recognize Mr. Slade’s voice, than he was gone so quickly that I barely glimpsed him. As I secreted the paper in my pocket, I heard my name called. I turned and found myself facing a tall man, some forty-five years of age, with a languid, slouching stance. His hair was blond, his features handsome, his country tweeds impeccably tailored.

  “Yes?” I stammered in reply.

  The man smiled and bowed. “An honor to make your acquaintance. Kindly allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tony Hitchman. I’ve been appointed to meet you.”

  I realized at once that Mr. Hitchman was not the man who had invited me: His speech was the proper diction of the British upper classes, free from any foreign accent.

  “Had a pleasant journey, I hope?” Mr. Hitchman said.

  As I answered that I had, I gleaned a closer inspection of him. Behind his languid posture I sensed the alertness of a predatory beast ready to spring. His smile had a roguish cast, emphasized by a scar that snaked down his left cheek. His pale green eyes were cold, their appraisal of me too direct. All told, I doubted that Hitchman was the respectable gentleman he seemed on the surface. My distrust of him exceeded what I would have felt towards anyone associated with the villain who’d brought me here. And I perceived that the distrust was mutual.

  “This is Nick,” he said, indicating a man hovering near us.

  Nick was swarthy, his strong build clothed in rough garments, his dark eyes shadowed by heavy lids. He nodded me a silent greeting and lifted my bags.

  “If you’ll please come this way?” Hitchman said.

  Everything in me rebelled against going with them—but I had promised to lead Mr. Slade to the villain. Quaking from fear, I allowed Hitchman to guide me to a carriage. Nick stowed my bags and took the reins; Hitchman sat beside me. The carriage wended through narrow, rising crooked lanes, past fishermen’s cottages and the brick buildings of shops. Below us I saw boats clustered in the harbor, and a handsome promenade along the shore.

  “Ever been in Penzance before?” Mr. Hitchman asked.

  “No,” I said, fighting the urge to look backward and see if Mr. Slade was following us.

  As we drove through the town, curiosity momentarily abated my terror. Here had my maternal grandfather been a tea merchant and my grandmother the daughter of a silversmith. After their deaths my mother had left Penzance; I had never ventured to these parts. I wondered if any of the people I saw on the streets were my relations, whose acquaintance I would have liked to make.

  “What have you been told about the terms of your employment?” Hitchman said.

  “Nothing,” said I. “Perhaps you could tell me what my duties are?”

  “You’re to be a teacher.”

  Never had I imagined that I’d been hired to practice my former profession. “Who is to be my pupil?”

  “My partner’s son,” Hitchman said.

  A ray of illumination shone through the veil of mystery that shrouded the villain. I now knew that he had a child. And I knew that Hitchman was no mere minion, but the villain’s coconspirator. My distrust and fear of Hitchman increased.

  “What subjects am I to teach?” I inquired.

  “English,” came the answer.

  I began to suspect that the villain intended other uses for me. I hoped he would be caught—and I would be rescued—before I found out what they were.

  We drove out of town, along the shore, past hills covered with cedar and pines that looked black in the wet, dark day. I heard a carriage behind us and took courage from the notion that surely Mr. Slade followed me. We turned onto a lane that wound down into a narrow cove; the other carriage continued along the road. Twisted cypress trees clung to the rocky cliffs that sheltered the cove. On a rocky outcrop of land, a lone house perched above the sea. The low tide lapped over the rocks. The house had a slate roof and thick granite walls built to withstand storms. It was square and stark, with three floors. Nick halted the carriage outside the attached stable.

  “I’ll show you to your room,” Hitchman said. “After you’ve had a bit of a rest, you can meet your pupil.”

  Nick carried my bags up the steps to the house. I saw no alternative but to follow. Inside the house, I hesitated in the foyer, which had a bare stone floor and cracked plaster walls. A cold, damp draft wound through doors to various rooms. From beyond the stairway came a woman and two men. Hitchman introduced the stern, black-clad woman to me as Ruth the housekeeper, but he did not name the men, who were of the same silent, tough sort as Nick. I felt desperate to escape, but I must first draw the villain out of hiding.

  “May I meet my employer now?” I said.

  “Sorry; he’s away on business,” Hitchman said. “He’ll return in a day or so.”

  My heart plummeted.

  “After you, Miss Brontë?” Hitchman gestured with mocking courtesy towards the stairs.

  I doubted that Mr. Slade would want me trapped here to wait for the villain; yet I knew that his career—and the lives of innocent people—hinged on me. Thus, I preceded Hitchman upstairs, into a chamber. The furniture was carved in elaborate, unmatched designs, its surfaces marred; the porcelain jug and basin on the washstand were chipped, and the mirror’s gilt frame tarnished; the Turkey rug was discolored. I had a sudden memory of tales my mother had told me of Cornwall. Wrecking and piracy had once been common occupations here. Cornish folk would watch for ships to founder on the rocks offshore, then pillage the cargoes; they also attacked the ships at sea. I wondered if my quarters had been furnished with salvage and loot.

  Nick set my bags by the bed and departed. Hitchman said, “Is there anything you need? A bite to eat, perhaps?”

  I answered in the negative: I could not have swallowed food. I peered through the window, whose glass was scarred by wind and salt. Behind the house, a dock rose on pilings from the sea. The cove was hidden from the view of everyone except fishermen on the distant ships. I remembered that Cornwall’s other famed pastime was smuggling. The smugglers had once conveyed tin from local mines to the Continent, and spirits, tobacco, and silks to England. Secluded coves such as this had provided hiding places for boats laden with contraband. Perhaps this house had once belonged to a smuggling baron.

  “By the way, I should mention a few rules for you to observe.” Hitchman spoke in a casual tone, but when I turned to face him, his gaze promised harsh retribution for disobedience. “You’ll confine yourself to this floor and the one below. The upper story and the cellars are off limits. After dark, you’ll stay in your room. And you’ll not leave the premises without
an escort. Nor will you speak about the household’s business to outsiders. Do you understand?”

  “Quite,” I said coolly, though I despaired to realize how little freedom I would have.

  Hitchman smiled, as if he sensed my unhappiness and relished it. A current of antipathy flowed between us. “I’ll leave you, then. Come downstairs when you’re ready. Dinner will be served at six.”

  He walked to the door, turned, and added, “Your predecessor broke the rules. She didn’t last long afterward.”

  Then Hitchman was gone. As his footsteps receded down the stairs, I absorbed the impact of his parting words. I had been brought here to fill the vacancy left by Isabel White, whom his associates had murdered; a similar fate awaited me should I defy him and his partner. I sank into trembling fear, when suddenly I remembered the paper given me at the station. I closed the door, brought out the paper, and read the following message:

  If you need me, come to Oyster Cottage, Bay Street. We’ll be watching you. Good luck. Destroy this note.

  J. S.

  Even as the reassurance from Mr. Slade lifted my heart, I despaired anew. How could I reach him without disobeying Hitchman’s rules and imperiling my life? I saw that I must not count on Mr. Slade for help; my own resources must suffice. Overcome by fatigue, I lay on the bed and rested for an hour. I then rose, washed my face, and tidied myself. Then I crept downstairs and entered the front parlor. It was furnished with the same battered opulence as my room. As I peered into a curio cabinet, someone lunged out from behind it.

  “YAH!” he shouted, arms raised in menacing fashion.

  All my stifled terror and anxiety exploded like a thunderbolt in my chest. I screamed. Recoiling, I flung up my hands and stumbled backward.