The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  In Penzance, Nick drove up wet cobblestone streets where townspeople walked sheltered under umbrellas and brick town-houses abounded. He stopped the carriage outside St. Mary’s Church. Its stone walls promised age-old sanctuary to souls in need. I climbed out of the carriage, trying not to look about for Mr. Slade. The rain drenched Nick and me as we hurried past a churchyard filled with tombs and lush with tropical vegetation. Inside the church, Nick stationed himself by the door while I walked up the aisle between the pews. Among these were scattered some dozen worshippers. Lightning illuminated them in flashes. Their soft spoken prayers and the rumbling thunder echoed in the chill, dank space. I anxiously scanned the church from beneath my bonnet. Would Mr. Slade come? How might we talk without Nick’s noticing us?

  I heard a soft hiss, glanced to my right, and saw Mr. Slade crouching on the floor inside a pew. He must have watched me stop at the church, where he hurried to enter by some other door and lie hidden in wait for me. My steps faltered, and he gestured for me to sit by him. Conscious of Nick’s gaze on me, I did.

  “Act as if I’m not here,” Mr. Slade whispered. “Pretend you’re praying.”

  I bowed my head over my clasped hands. My mind teemed with memories of the previous night, while my heart beat fast with emotions I had no time to sort out. “Kuan has told me some part of his plan for revenge,” I whispered. “He means to take hostages and force the British out of China.” I regretted that my news was so vague. “But I don’t know who the hostages are or how Kuan means to take them.”

  There was a brief silence from Mr. Slade, during which I sensed his shock. He said, “I do know. Yesterday I received a letter from the prime minister. He says he was accosted by one of Kuan’s henchmen in London. The man ordered him to use his authority to persuade the Queen that her children need a new governess, and to recommend Charlotte Brontë for the post.”

  Amazement and horror overwhelmed me as Mr. Slade’s news and mine combined like pieces of a puzzle fitting together to complete a terrifying picture. “The royal children are the hostages Kuan intends to take! I am to help him kidnap them!” I fought to lower my voice and maintain the pretext of prayer.

  “So this is how he means to strike at the British Empire.” Revelation inflected Mr. Slade’s voice. “Not by military force, but by ransoming its most precious treasure—the royal bloodline. If he succeeds, he will usher in a new, horrific era of warfare. No longer will enemies need huge armies to cripple us—just the wherewithal to kidnap, extort, and terrify. It could begin the downfall of not just Britain, but the civilized world.”

  We sat speechless in awe and dread of such a future, until I voiced the question that Kuan had evaded answering: “Why has Kuan chosen me, of all people?”

  “I can only speculate that you have the traits he needs in an accomplice. He surely knows other people who are capable of kidnapping the children but none responsible enough—as you are—to ensure their well-being until he’s done with them.” Slade added, “Yours must be the role for which he intended Isabel White. No wonder she balked and ran away from him. The kidnapping must have been the last straw for her.”

  “It’s the last for me as well!” I exclaimed, distraught and frantic. “I cannot do it any more than Isabel could!”

  Now I understood why Kuan had questioned me about my feelings towards children: He had wanted to ascertain that I was capable of harming them if need be—and he had misinterpreted my lack of enthusiam to mean that indeed I was. Though I bore them not much affection, I could never conspire to make the six royal children “the innocents who shall suffer as recompense for the suffering of innocents.”

  “I know you don’t want to,” Mr. Slade said, “but forestalling it won’t be that simple.”

  My terror increased a hundredfold. “Kuan will kill me if I resist. What am I going to do?”

  Mr. Slade pondered while our time together swiftly fled. I saw, with a sinking heart, that there was no safe way to end my ordeal. Now I heard Nick’s footsteps coming towards me. Fearful and desperate, I beseeched Mr. Slade again, “What shall I do?”

  “Prepare to resume your old occupation as a governess.”

  Nick drove me back to the house. There I spent the day alone, for T’ing-nan refused to come out of his room for lessons, and I didn’t see Kuan or Hitchman. The house seemed deserted, except for Ruth, who served my meals. That night after dinner I became so drowsy that I must have been drugged again. I slept so soundly that I was aware of nothing until morning, when I again awakened feeling groggy and ill. I rose and dressed, then heard a knock at my door. I opened it to find Hitchman outside. He was wearing his coat, carrying his hat.

  “Pack your bags, Miss Brontë,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

  I was alarmed by the realization that Kuan’s plans were being set so abruptly in motion. “Where are we going?”

  “To London,” Hitchman said.

  “Why?” I said. But I already knew. Fear and anxiety rushed upon me.

  “I’ll explain on the way,” Hitchman said.

  “What about Mr. Kuan?” I said, trying to stall the inevitable. “Are he and T’ing-nan coming with us?”

  “They’ve already gone.” Hitchman’s cruel smile mocked my dismay. “They left last night.”

  I comprehended that I had indeed been drugged last night, so that I wouldn’t hear their departure. I felt an awful despair. Kuan had vanished again, probably through the house’s cellars and the smugglers’ caves, then by boat out to sea. While I was still under the power of his henchman, I faced the threat of death unless I cooperated with his scheme.

  “Make haste, Miss Brontë,” said Hitchman. “The train leaves in an hour.”

  33

  HITCHMAN ACCOMPANIED ME TO LONDON ON THE TRAIN. HE told me nothing of our plans, other than that I would receive further instructions when we arrived. While riding in the carriage, he sat beside me; at stations along the way, he rarely let me out of his sight.

  “If you have any thoughts of absconding, you had best forget them,” he warned me. “Kuan has men besides myself watching over you.”

  I didn’t see Mr. Slade during the trip, and I feared that we had become separated. The mundane business of eating box lunches and changing trains took on a nightmarish quality. The combination of terror and monotony was almost unbearable.

  We arrived at Euston Station on 4 September. Hitchman helped me out of the train onto the platform. Exhausted and disoriented, I wondered what misadventure lay in store for me. Then I saw, loitering amidst the crowds, a familiar figure. It was Lord John Russell, the prime minister. His hat shielded his face, as though he wished to obscure his identity. Hitchman called his name; Lord Russell turned. His startled, wary look of recognition encompassed Hitchman as well as me.

  “I’ve been ordered to meet you,” he said to Hitchman in a low voice; he didn’t want to be overheard. He pretended not to know me. “Here I am.” His scowl expressed bitter resentment.

  “And here is Miss Brontë,” Hitchman replied. “Do as you’ve been told, and all will go well for you.” The threat showed through his genial manner. “That applies to you, too, Miss Brontë. Au revoir,” he said, then slipped away and was lost in the crowds.

  Lord Russell led me to a carriage without looking at me. His face was grim; he didn’t speak a word until we were riding slowly through the London traffic. “Forgive me if I don’t seem happy to see you again. Do you know that I have been forced to obtain for you a position as governess to Her Majesty’s children?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Mr. Slade told me about your letter.”

  Lord Russell clenched his fists and glared about as if looking for somebody to pummel. “The villain’s audacity defies belief! Have you met him? Who is he? What does he intend?”

  I described Kuan and his motives as best I could. I explained that Mr. Slade and I had deduced that Kuan meant me to help him kidnap the children, so that they could be used as hostages to force Britain out of China. Lord Russell
’s sickly countenance turned even sicker. Cursing under his breath, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped sweat off his forehead.

  “I cannot possibly abet such a scheme,” he said. “What he plans is the blackest treachery against the crown! Yet he holds my life in his hands. God help me!”

  As the carriage inched along, a man jumped inside. He wore the shabby clothes of a beggar and a cap pulled low over his eyes. He sat next to the prime minister.

  “Sir, this a private carriage,” Lord Russell said in a startled, offended tone.

  The intruder removed his cap. It was Mr. Slade. “Thank Heaven!” I exclaimed. “I thought never to see you again!” Tears welled in my eyes as the emotions I’d suppressed during my journey with Hitchman found release.

  “I followed you all the way from Cornwall,” Mr. Slade said. “You weren’t alone.”

  His manner was businesslike and impersonal, but I could discern that he was glad to see me, too. I felt happy and safe in his presence, even though still under mortal threat from Kuan. How could I have ever divided my loyalty between them?

  Lord Russell greeted Mr. Slade without enthusiasm. He obviously had not forgotten the humiliating confession he had made at the ball.

  “Kuan is gone,” I told Mr. Slade.

  “I know. My men searched his house as soon as you and Hitchman left.” Mr. Slade turned to Lord Russell. “Have you arranged Miss Brontë’s new post?”

  “Yes, I have,” Lord Russell replied in a hateful tone. “I’m taking her to Buckingham Palace now. We have an audience with the Queen at one o’clock.”

  I cowered at the very idea. How unworthy of the honor I felt! To think that I must meet Her Majesty under such ignoble circumstances! “What will we do?”

  “We must tell the Queen everything,” Mr. Slade said.

  Lord Russell looked anxious. “Not everything, surely.”

  “We’ll keep your connection with Mr. Kuan a secret,” Mr. Slade assured him. “We’ll persuade the Queen to let Miss Brontë stay in her employ long enough for us to find out who Kuan’s agents are and apprehend them and him.”

  “How do you propose to persuade Her Majesty?” Lord Russell said, clearly deeming this a futile plan.

  “That’s what we must determine before you take Miss Brontë to the palace,” said Slade. “She would probably like some luncheon first. Take her to the Warwick Club. I’ll meet you there.”

  Lord Russell shook his head as though in disbelief that any good could come of whatever we did, but he said, “Very well.”

  The traffic cleared; the carriage began moving faster. Mr. Slade opened the door. “Where are you going?” I said, loath to lose him.

  “To gather our forces,” Mr. Slade said, then jumped from the carriage.

  Lord Russell and I dined in a private room, at a table laid with heavy silver, fine linen, and china. Velvet draperies covered the window; with candles burning, it felt like night. We had finished and were sitting in grim silence when Mr. Slade arrived with Lord Unwin and a man I didn’t know. This man was in his sixties and handsome with an elegant figure, wavy grey hair, and a jaunty step. Lord Russell and I both rose.

  “Lord Palmerston,” the prime minister said, speaking and bowing stiffly. He barely acknowledged Lord Unwin, whose haughty countenance showed resentment at the snub.

  Lord Palmerston returned the greeting with cool civility. Mr. Slade said, “Miss Brontë, may I present the foreign secretary?”

  I had recognized his name. This was the man charged with managing England’s relations with foreign kingdoms and protecting the interests of the crown. The newspapers extolled his skill at diplomacy as loudly as they criticized his policies. “It is an honor, sir,” I said, awestruck.

  He took my hand and gracefully raised it to his lips. “The honor is all mine.” His smile was shaped like a Cupid’s bow; his eyes sparkled with intelligence and zest. His voice was suave, and I felt the power of his charm. “I had the pleasure of knowing your father long ago. Pat Brontë and I were at Cambridge together.”

  “Yes, I know.” I recalled Papa talking about how, in 1804, when Britain was bracing for an invasion by Napoleon’s army, volunteer militias were formed. Papa and other university men had drilled under the command of Henry Temple, the officer in charge. Papa took pride in this connection between himself and the man who was now foreign secretary, but I never expected Lord Palmerston to remember Papa.

  “When you see your father, please give him my best regards,” Lord Palmerston said.

  “I will, sir.” I could see that his prodigious memory, coupled with his skill at pleasing people, had contributed to his political success.

  “If you’ll excuse my haste, time is short,” Lord Palmerston said, and I glimpsed the man of purpose beneath the charm. We all sat at the table. “Mr. Slade has briefed me on the situation, and we are in agreement on what must be done.” He ignored Lord Unwin, who compressed his lips, disgruntled. “Now I shall tell you how I propose to handle Her Majesty.”

  His self-confidence was supreme. I envisioned Papa as a university student, marching at a young Lord Palmerston’s orders. Now I was under the same command.

  The unpredictability of life astounds me. My adventure had already taken me beyond the limits of where I had ever envisioned going. I had traversed England and crossed the sea; I had found myself among the dregs of society and then among the rich and powerful; I had journeyed into my past. Caught between two men who represented the poles of good and evil, I had done things of which I had never thought myself capable, and enacted dramas more intense than any in my dreams. But even with all that, I would never have imagined meeting Victoria Regina, Queen of England.

  We arrived at Buckingham Palace, whose vast grey bulk of Classical architecture dominates the Mall that encompasses Trafalgar Square and Westminster. Red-coated guards armed with rifles stood sentry outside. A flag bearing the royal standard fluttered over the roof, indicating that the Queen was in residence. Mr. Slade, Lord Palmerston, Lord Russell, and Lord Unwin escorted me so quickly through the palace that I had only a blurred impression of marble pillars, wide hallways, grand staircases, hordes of servants, abundant mirrors, ornate furniture, and gilding everywhere. I found it to be as vulgar as it was magnificent. All I remember clearly is the stench of bad drains and stagnant cesspools.

  My presentation to the Queen took place in her sitting room. She and her Prince Consort were seated on a brocade-covered divan amidst many figurines, gold-framed portraits, and brass cages of pet birds. Dolls and other toys lay strewn about the floral carpet. Through open windows hung with gold draperies came the noise of children at play outside. The informality of the situation surprised me, although I remembered that I was here as a servant, unworthy of a lavish, ceremonial presentation at court. Trembling and awkward, I didn’t dare look up from the floor until curiosity triumphed over timidity.

  This was not the first time I had seen Queen Victoria. While I was at school in Belgium, she had visited Brussels. I’d stood amidst the crowds to watch her procession. When she flashed by in a carriage, I had thought her not beautiful, and I found my impression still valid now, five years later. She was prettily dressed in a summer gown, but even more stout than before, having borne six children, one of them that past spring. She wore her brown hair in a simple knot. She had a florid, heavy-featured face with a pointed nose and receding chin. The Prince Consort, Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, was tall, rather stiff, and clad in an elaborate coat, breeches, and boots. He wore a mustache and whiskers in foreign style, and looked far less handsome than his portraits.

  Formal greetings were exchanged. The Queen extended her hand to Lord Palmerston, who politely kissed it. She said, “The Queen is delighted that her foreign secretary chooses to grace her with his presence.” Her voice was well bred yet girlish; she was only twenty-nine, very young for a ruler of the Empire. I detected sarcasm in her courteous tone. “His behavior has led her to believe that he preferred to avoid communica
tion with her.”

  Later Mr. Slade explained to me that the Queen and Palmerston were at odds because she wanted to approve all official correspondence from the Crown before it was disseminated, but that he had repeatedly taken action on her behalf and informed her only after the fact.

  “Not at all, Your Majesty,” said Lord Palmerston. “Were it not for the demands of my office, wild horses could not keep me from seeking your delightful company.” He spoke with such gallantry that the Queen visibly softened.

  Lords Russell and Unwin made their obeisance to the royal pair. The Prince Consort was uniformly cordial to everyone. He spoke with a heavy Germanic accent. Although the same age as the Queen, he appeared much older due to his ponderous manner. The Queen was cool towards Lord Russell. I later learned from Mr. Slade that she thought the cross, unhandsome, and brusque little man failed to measure up to his predecessors, of whom she’d been quite fond. She paid Lord Unwin scant attention. When Lord Palmerston introduced Mr. Slade, she studied him with interest as he kissed her hand. Her cheeks flushed brighter; she smiled. Then came my turn. Shaking in my shoes, miserably aware of my plain looks and travel-worn clothes, I tiptoed up to the Queen. I felt like a criminal, approaching my sovereign under false pretenses. Keeping my gaze downward, I watched the hem of my frock move nearer hers. I made an awkward curtsy, murmuring my respects in a scarcely audible voice.

  “This is Miss Charlotte Brontë, Your Majesty’s new governess,” said Lord Russell.

  “Welcome, Miss Brontë,” said the Queen.

  Her voice compelled me to raise my head that she might inspect me. My heart pounded as I stood face to face with the Queen, close enough to touch her. She had round, protuberant, luminous eyes whose intelligence rendered her better than plain. A regal aura surrounded her despite her youth. Her expression indicated that she didn’t think much of me.