The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  The next morning, accompanied by the children and myself, and other members of their entourage, the Queen and Prince Consort strolled down the riverside terraces. The flowerbeds and shrubbery of the formal gardens had run together in a weedy, unkempt tangle. It was a fine day, the sky blue, the bright sun dappling the overgrown paths we trod beneath the mountain ash and weeping birch trees. Around us rose the lofty peaks; below, the river sparkled through the foliage that rustled in the fresh Highland wind. The Prince walked with the children, pointing out birds and squirrels to them. The entourage scattered. I glimpsed Mr. Slade among the guards, but I avoided him. I took my courage in hand and approached the Queen.

  “Your Majesty?” I said timidly.

  She fixed a cold, reproving eye upon me. “What is it?”

  I fell into step beside her, aware that I was taking advantage of an intimacy with Her Majesty that most subjects could never claim. She clearly objected to my presence, but I couldn’t afford to care. “Might I please have a word with you?”

  The Queen hesitated, then yielded to the curiosity I saw on her face. “Very well.”

  I trembled with dread because the favor I wanted of her was far beyond my right to ask. Were I to have any chance of getting it, I must be circumspect. “Your Majesty has much influence over the affairs of the world,” I began.

  “The sovereign of a great nation exercises power abroad as well as at home,” she agreed, with suspicion as well as pride.

  “And Your Majesty has unsurpassed ability to use this influence for the good of mankind.” My voice quavered and my heart pounded.

  “Naturally,” the Queen said in a tone that forbade me to attribute anything but the noblest motives to her. “Now please get to the point of this conversation.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” I steeled my waning courage. “I wish to discuss the opium trade.”

  “The opium trade!” Surprise inflected her voice: She would never have expected me to raise this subject. Apparently no one had explained to her the story behind Kuan’s crimes.

  “Yes,” I said, as meekly and agreeably as possible. “I wish to broach the subject of its problems with your majesty.”

  “Its problems?” She narrowed her eyes in offense. “Opium is produced by colonial plantations in India. It is prized for its unparalleled medicinal properties, which have hitherto been unmatched by those of any other plant and have allowed for enormous advances in medical science. It is the principal commodity sold abroad by British merchants. It produces some three million pounds in annual revenue for the Crown. The money earned recoups the fortune spent by Britain on tea, silks, and spices in the Far East.”

  This was news to me. Kuan had spoken only of the evils of the opium trade. The Queen knew only the good. I ventured cautiously, “But there are terrible ills associated with opium.” I saw her bristle. However little I wished to affront her, I must continue, for the sake of her children and my family. “Opium enslaves the people who use it. It saps their bodily strength and their moral character. It weakens their will to do anything but obtain more opium and sink themselves deeper in vice.” My need to enlighten the Queen impassioned my speech. “People have stolen, murdered, suffered, and died for opium. It does far more evil than good.”

  Distrust darkened the Queen’s expression. I realized that even if she knew these facts, she was bound to protect the trade that financed such a large portion of her Empire’s activities. She said, “Perhaps you would tell me how you derived these notions of its evils?”

  I couldn’t admit that I had learned them from Kuan; I didn’t want her to think that I was in league with him in any way. “My brother is a slave to opium. I have personally witnessed his destruction.”

  The Queen made a disdainful sound. “Some people whose minds are weak overindulge in opium; some overindulge in liquor. It is the overindulgence that causes their troubles. Opium is wholesome when used in moderation; it is perfectly legal and respectable. In fact, it is a good sedative for infants. I’ve used it on my own children.”

  My hope of altering her opinion faded; yet I persisted: “One may decide to use opium oneself, for better or worse.” I grew reckless in my desperation. “But should opium be forced upon people who don’t want it, who have enacted laws to prohibit it in their land? Britain is forcing opium on China and waging war there in order to perpetuate the trade which brings suffering to multitudes.” Halting on the path, I faced the Queen; I clasped my hands in ardent entreaty. “I beg Your Majesty to put an end to the trade!”

  I thought that if it ceased, Kuan would be satisfied enough to give up his desire for revenge against Britain. I hoped that if I helped him thus, he would release me. I would not have spoken so boldly to the Queen had I not considered it my only chance to save both my family and hers.

  She drew back from me, repulsed by my vehemence. Her cheeks flushed scarlet. “Miss Brontë, you have gone too far,” she said with great indignation. “Your outburst hardly deserves the courtesy of an answer. But answer I will, if only to correct your deplorable misconceptions and rebuke your flagrant disrespect. In the first place, no one is forcing opium on anyone. Should there be people who do not want it, they may refuse to buy it. In the second place, the Crown would never have waged war against China had China not mistreated British merchants, destroyed valuable opium stores that belonged to them, and insulted British honor. Britain has rightfully exacted compensation for these offenses and protected British commerce in the Far East. The issues of warfare and international trade are far more complex than a humble governess untutored in the arts of statesmanship could ever grasp.”

  Her words dashed my hopes. In my sad humiliation I realized that from the Queen’s perspective, the greatest good would necessarily always lie in what best served Britain. The Queen had no reason to take the part of distant foreigners over that of her own country.

  “Furthermore, Miss Brontë,” the Queen said, “your presumption at questioning your Queen’s judgment about what is best for Britain borders on treason.” She waved an imperious hand at me. “Go. Vex me no more.”

  I slunk away like a whipped animal. All around me was bright; all within me, black with misery. As I stumbled down a flight of stone stairs cut into the terraces, someone called my name. It was Mr. Slade. He was the last person I wanted to see. In my haste to elude him, I tripped on the rough stairs; he caught up with me and steadied me.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “No, you’re as pale as death. You’re trembling. Something has happened. What is it?”

  How I longed to blurt it out! Such a temptation I felt to share the burden of my knowledge with Mr. Slade in the hope that he could help me! But even as my tongue quivered on the brink of confession, I glimpsed a figure below us, on the terrace nearest the wide, sparkling river. It was Captain Innes. He waved cheerily at us and winked at me. My heart sank at his reminder that my family would die if I breathed a word of what he’d said to me last night. I looked at Mr. Slade, and although he stood close enough for me to touch, he seemed as remote as the other side of the world.

  “Nothing has happened,” I mumbled, turning away from Mr. Slade. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go back to the children.”

  I felt Mr. Slade—and Captain Innes—watching me as I hurried up the stairs. On an upper terrace I found Vicky, Bertie, and little Alfred rambling about with the Prince Consort and the Duchess of Norfolk. The Queen was absent, to my relief.

  “Ah, there you are, Miss Brontë,” the Duchess said with a welcoming smile. “Come join us.”

  I did, grateful for her friendliness. The rest of that morning, her blithe conversation enlivened the party. The children were fond of her; Bertie behaved with more decorum while in her presence; even the somber Prince Consort cheered up. That afternoon, when the Queen and Prince Consort went driving in a pony cart, the Duchess helped me tend the children. I was glad to have her company, for I noticed Mr. Slade and Captain Innes loitering nearby
, and her presence kept them both away from me.

  But I couldn’t stop thinking about the vial of opium hidden in my room. I couldn’t deny that the next day I would have to deliver the children into Kuan’s hands or condemn my own family to a terrible death. As the hours passed, I became certain that I could do neither.

  My apprehension increased during dinner and the musical entertainment afterward. By the time I retired to my chamber, my heart agitated within my ribs like a bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage. I paced the floor while the clock ticked a cadence of doom. At three in the morning, unable to sleep or sit still or bear the waiting any longer, I flung my cloak over my shoulders and raced out of the castle.

  The freezing Highland wind gusted at me, stirring the dark forests. The moon and stars shone icy silver radiance upon the castle’s turrets and the snow-peaked mountains. The vast, dark landscape seemed haunted by ancient Scottish ghosts; wolves howled. I ran through the night, as if by running I could escape from Kuan. While I ran, I wept. I stumbled through woods, over rocks and fallen branches, caring naught that I didn’t know where I was going.

  Suddenly I struck an obstacle that emerged from the shadows. It was neither tree nor stone, but flesh and blood. Strong hands seized me, arresting my flight. I cried out in terror and fought wildly until I heard Mr. Slade exclaim, “Miss Brontë! What are you doing?”

  He released me. I sank to my knees, sobbing while I panted with exertion. I remembered how little Mr. Slade slept at night; he had probably come out of his lodgings for a walk in the fresh air. Some instinctive impulse must have guided me to him.

  “Help me,” I cried. The words I’d held in all day burst from me like water through a dam weakened by its pressure. “Please—you must save them!”

  “Who?” Mr. Slade said, perplexed.

  “Papa. Anne. Emily. Branwell.” Gasps punctuated the names I spoke. “They’re in terrible danger!”

  Mr. Slade crouched before me and peered into my face, trying to make sense of me. “What kind of danger?”

  “They’ve been taken prisoner,” I said.

  “How do you know this?”

  “At the parsonage,” I babbled through my sobs. “He’ll kill them unless I—”

  “Who? What?” Then enlightenment cleared the confusion from Mr. Slade’s eyes. “It’s Kuan, isn’t it? His accomplice has approached you. Kuan has taken your family hostage to force your cooperation in the kidnapping.” Mr. Slade grasped my shoulders. “Who is the accomplice? When and how is the kidnapping to take place?”

  “I can’t tell you.” I rose, pulled free of Mr. Slade, and fled before he could press me for answers.

  “Miss Brontë!” Mr. Slade called. “Wait!”

  I rushed headlong into the forest. Branches leapt out of the darkness and raked my face. I crashed into trees, groped around them. The wind howled past me and the earth sloped steeply downward beneath my feet. I lost my balance and tumbled head over heels down a hill, screaming as rocks battered me all the way to the bottom. Dizzy and sore, I stood up but was too exhausted to run any farther. Mr. Slade barreled down the hill and skidded to a stop near me.

  “Leave me alone,” I cried, raising my hand to forestall more questions.

  His arms locked around me. “I want to help you, and I promise I will, but first you must tell me everything.”

  We were in a clearing in the forest. Trees held the moon in their foliage. I could see Mr. Slade’s eyes intent on me, feel the rhythm of his breathing. My need to confide shattered my will to resist.

  “Captain Innes is the accomplice,” I said in a small, forlorn voice. “The kidnapping is set for tomorrow night. Captain Innes has instructed me to drug the children with laudanum. Then we shall deliver them to Kuan. He’ll free my family afterward.” I felt relief at unburdening myself, but a terrible dread because I had disobeyed Kuan. “Unless I do as he wishes, he’ll kill them.”

  “Good God,” Mr. Slade said. He clasped me to him; I wept unabashedly against his shoulder. “I should have known Kuan would do something like this. I should have known he would try to use your family against you. This is my fault.”

  “No,” I said. “The fault is mine. I didn’t tell you everything that went on between Kuan and me in Cornwall. If I had, then perhaps we both would have foreseen what he would do and prevented it.” At the thought of my family captive, frightened, and helpless, a fresh spate of sobs erupted from me. “I can’t let them die. But I can’t hurt those children!”

  “You won’t,” Mr. Slade assured me.

  “But what is to be done?”

  “I’ll send agents to Haworth at once to rescue your family. In the meantime . . .” He related a plan that seemed a good means of thwarting the kidnapping and capturing Kuan. “Can you do what is required of you?”

  “Yes,” I said fervently. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  I wept tears of joy that there was some hope for our success and for my family’s salvation. I felt immense gratitude towards Mr. Slade, who had released me from terror and despair. But in the wake of those strong, departing emotions, other emotions rushed in. I became suddenly conscious of Mr. Slade holding me, the warmth from his chest against my cheek, his hard, muscular arms, his trousers touching my skirts, of the fact that we were far from anyone else. Suddenly there surged through me the torrent of desire that I had tried to suppress for so long. My breath caught. I heard Mr. Slade’s catch at the same moment. His arms tightened around me. Slowly I raised my face. Mr. Slade was gazing at me, his features lit by the moon yet dark with serious thoughts. He inhaled a deep breath, like a man preparing to dive into the ocean, then bent his head towards me.

  Our lips met, his warm and firm upon mine, in the kiss that I had longed for all my life. My eyes closed as powerful sensations of pleasure and mortal fear spread through my entire self. I was falling through darkness. Images flashed through my mind—the curate William Weightman, Monsieur Heger. My feelings for them had been nothing compared to this hunger for Mr. Slade. My lips involuntarily parted. His tongue entered and found mine. Oh, the shocking, wet, intimate, thrilling contact! It seemed that our souls and thoughts fused. I saw the visage of a beautiful woman—his deceased wife. I felt in him the desire unsatisfied during seven years of mourning.

  We kissed again and again, each kiss deeper and more fevered. Mr. Slade moved his hands up from my waist; he clasped my bosom. I allowed it, even though I knew I shouldn’t. So intoxicating were my sensations that they shattered all vestiges of self-control, all thoughts of propriety. Mr. Slade drew me to the ground—or I drew him; I know not which. We lay together on the soft bed of fallen leaves. The trees vaulted like a cathedral ceiling above us. The moonlight shone down on us, white and pure. As Mr. Slade kissed and caressed me, the heavy layers of my clothing seemed to vanish, and I felt each caress as though upon my bare skin. Need overcame inhibition. I dared to touch Mr. Slade in a place where I’d thought I would never touch a man. Through his trousers I felt, for the first time in my life, masculine arousal. A profound awe moved me. My desire quickened to an unbearable frenzy. I clutched at Mr. Slade, pulling him atop me.

  “Please,” I cried.

  Mr. Slade hesitated, gasping. On his face I saw lust reined in by apprehension: He knew the risk that an illicit carnal union posed for a woman, and although I was beyond caring about it, he was cautious on my behalf. Not one garment of mine or his did he remove or disarrange. He did not ravish me as I would gladly have allowed. Instead he lowered himself onto me, and we moved together. My body arched against his. As the rhythm of our movements accelerated, my pleasure rose towards heights I had never imagined possible. A terrifying, wonderful alchemy turned everything in me to molten fire. The most incredible rapture I had ever experienced pulsed through me. I exclaimed in joy and amazement. This was the ecstasy hinted at but never actually described in love stories I’d read. This was what I had unknowingly yearned for during lonely nights spent indulging in secret fantasies.

>   I clung to Mr. Slade. His breaths came faster as he thrust himself harder and more insistently at me. Suddenly he flung back his head; he uttered a groan. I felt him shudder with the pleasure of his release. Then a sigh eased the tension from him. My own ecstasy yielded to quiet bliss. We lay side by side, embracing. It seemed that we floated together in some private universe high above the world.

  “Forgive me,” Mr. Slade said, his voice filled with guilt and regret. “I should not have let this happen.”

  I kissed away his apology. “There’s nothing to forgive,” I said, for I was as much to blame as he, and I had no regrets. At that moment, my love for him justified all sins.

  Slade caressed my hair. “I must confess that I’ve been wanting you ever since that day on the moors.”

  Delighted I was to learn that my feelings had not been unrequited. Although the forest was cold, I wished we could stay there forever. But a lightening of the sky presaged dawn. We disengaged, rose, and walked, hand in hand, until we reached the edge of the forest and Balmoral Castle was in sight.

  “I’ll see you soon. Don’t worry,” Mr. Slade said, “all will be well.”

  We kissed one last time, then he headed back towards his lodgings, while I hurried into the castle. I was giddy with excitement and happiness. It was not until later that I began to think clearly on what had happened between Mr. Slade and me. It was not until morning that our plans foundered terribly.

  37

  TOO OFTEN OUR PLANS FAIL NOT BECAUSE THEY LACK MERIT OR because we mishandle their execution. Sometimes they go awry due to the folly of another person whose motives run counter to ours. Alas, I experienced this hard lesson at the worst possible time.

  Two mornings after Captain Innes approached me with Kuan’s orders, a solemn gathering took place in the Balmoral Castle drawing room. The Queen and Prince Consort sat on a chintz-covered sofa. Mr. Slade and I, and Foreign Office agents armed with rifles, stood against walls hung with faded floral wallpaper. Beyond the open French doors, the children played in the sunny garden. Lord Unwin posed dramatically in the center of the room.