The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  The men departed. I unwrapped Vicky and Bertie. They had wet themselves while asleep, and their nightclothes were soaked. In the cupboards I found children’s garments, and some that would fit me. Those were of much better quality than I usually wore. Kuan had provided well for us. This dismayed rather than pleased me: It seemed the final confirmation that I would indeed be going on this journey. Nick brought bread, cheese, cold meat, and a water jug. I cleaned the children and dressed them.

  “Miss Brontë,” Vicky murmured. “Where are we?”

  I felt a terrible pity for her, and a guilt even more terrible. “On a ship.”

  “What are we doing here?” Vicky sat up, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t feel good. Where are we going?”

  I hadn’t the heart to tell her.

  “Where’s Mama?” Bertie demanded. I tried to put shoes on him, but he kicked at me. “Go away! I want Mama!”

  “I’m sorry, but your mama isn’t here.” Wondering how in the world I would manage him, I resorted to an outright lie: “Be a good boy, and you’ll see her soon.”

  Bertie began to cry and wail, “Mama! Papa!”

  When I tried to soothe him, he pushed me away and wailed louder. Vicky sat silent on her bunk, prim as ever; but her chin trembled.

  “You must be hungry and thirsty,” I said in an attempt to distract the children from their woe.

  Vicky drank some water, but she refused the food. “No thank you, Miss Brontë,” she said politely. “I don’t think I can eat.”

  Bertie said, “I’m going to find Mama,” and scrambled out the door.

  I followed, calling, “Bertie! Come back here at once!”

  He ran down the passage, but Nick stood blocking the stairs. Nick picked up Bertie, who shrieked and fought, carried him into our chamber, and dumped him on the bunk. Bertie lay there squalling. Nick gave me a look that warned me to keep Bertie inside, then left. The rolling of the ship churned my stomach. I wanted to vomit up my sickness and terror, to weep with despair. But I had to hold myself together for the sake of the children. It was up to me to save them from Kuan. I sat beside Vicky and took her cold little hand in mine.

  “Can you keep a secret?” I whispered.

  She gave me a somber, questioning look. Then she nodded.

  “Some bad men have kidnapped us,” I whispered. “I promise I’ll take you and Bertie back to your mama and papa.” Somehow, God willing, I would. “But I need you to promise to help me. Can you?”

  I couldn’t explain to a child the terrible specifics of what might transpire, but Vicky seemed to understand at once that we were in danger and must band together. She said, “Yes, Miss Brontë. What do you want me to do?”

  “You must try not to make those men angry,” I said. “Should there arise a chance for us to escape, be ready to do whatever I tell you.” She nodded solemnly. “And if you can calm your brother, please do it right now.”

  Vicky hopped down from her bunk and addressed Bertie: “Shame on you, Prince Albert Edward. That’s no way for the future King of England to carry on. Be quiet!” She cuffed the sobbing boy on the head. “Show some courage!”

  At that moment she sounded just like her mother. Bertie ceased his tantrum and pouted. I gave Vicky a look of thanks, which she acknowledged with a gracious nod.

  Hitchman appeared at the door. “Mr. Kuan would like to see you,” he told me.

  He locked the children in the room. Apprehension gripped me as we went up on the deck. Kuan stood gazing eastward out to sea. He had shed his European garb and now wore the coat, trousers, cap, and slippers of a mandarin. He looked altogether foreign, and even more sinister than before.

  “Greetings again, Miss Brontë,” he said.

  He motioned for Hitchman to leave us and extended his hand to me. The Chinese crew loitered nearby, armed and wary. I gave Kuan my hand, which he pressed to his lips. I stifled a tremor of revulsion. No matter that I could still sympathize with his cause, Kuan was the devil incarnate. I avoided his gaze, lest mine reveal my thoughts.

  “A thousand thanks for delivering the royal children to me,” Kuan said. “You have performed admirably.”

  Despite his extensive network of informants and virtual omniscience, he seemed unaware that I had betrayed Captain Innes and that the man was dead. Nothing in his manner indicated that he suspected me of collaborating with his enemies. I silently thanked God.

  “It was my pleasure to serve you,” I said, eager to keep his trust, the better to find a way to escape.

  “I regret holding your family hostage,” Kuan said. “It was but a necessary precaution. Before we set sail for China, I will send word to my men to release them. I hope I haven’t caused them any inconvenience.”

  He spoke as if imprisoning my family were so trivial that I wouldn’t mind. I swallowed my anger and said, “When do we sail?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “when the rest of my men arrive. They will bring the gold we need to journey around the world and carry out my plans in China.”

  My spirits lifted momentarily, thinking I’d been granted a reprieve; then it dawned that I had but one day to save the children. And how could I, when we were on this ship, so far from shore? If only Slade would find us!

  Kuan said, “How are the children?”

  “They’re a bit shaken,” I said, “but otherwise unharmed.”

  “Very good,” Kuan said. “I need them alive. Your duty is to keep them in good health.”

  That answered my question regarding what else he wanted from me. The voyage to China might take as long as a year, depending on the seas, the winds, and the vicissitudes that travelers face. And Kuan’s crewmen were obviously ill qualified to serve as nursemaids.

  “Once we get to China, I will issue an ultimatum,” Kuan went on. “Either the British must leave my kingdom, or their Queen’s children will die. The secret arsenal of weapons that I’ve sent to my accomplices in Canton over the years is waiting for me. With the gold that my men are bringing, I will raise an army. I will ban foreigners from China forever and restore Chinese honor.”

  Clever though his plan was, I couldn’t share his confidence that he would succeed. Would the Queen surrender to him because he held her children hostage? More likely, she would send the army to rescue them and crush him.

  “The emperor will reward me as a hero,” Kuan said. Visions of glory swirled in his eyes, and I realized that he was no longer the genius who had previously laid so many remarkable entrapments. His quest for revenge and power had driven him to near insanity. “I will resume my status as an imperial official. You will live in my estate, where you will want for nothing.”

  But I predicted that Kuan and his country would face more war, and suffer even greater defeat and humiliation than before. What then would become of Vicky and Bertie? Would Kuan kill them after they had outlived their usefulness to him? Would they die during a war between England and China? What terrible fate awaited me unless we escaped?

  Hitchman and T’ing-nan joined Kuan and me. “Ah, Miss Brontë, here is your former pupil,” Kuan said.

  T’ing-nan gave me a baleful look: He was no gladder to renew our acquaintance than was I.

  “When China is purged of foreign influence and peace is restored, my son will study for the civil service exam,” Kuan said. “He must work hard to make up for the education he has missed while we’ve been abroad.” He gave T’ing-nan a warning look. “You must practice self-discipline instead of lazing about as you have become accustomed to do.”

  T’ing-nan slouched against the railing; a sneer twisted his mouth.

  “What’s the matter?” Hitchman said, irritated by the boy’s surliness. “You’ve been longing to go back to China. Aren’t you pleased that you finally are going?”

  “We no go China,” T’ing-nan said. “I never get home again.”

  “Discontent has become a habit for you,” Kuan rebuked him. “You would rather complain than appreciate your good fortune.”

  T’ing-nan
pushed himself away from the railing and glared at Kuan. “You think you know everything. But you not as smart as you think.” A cunning, malevolent smile stole across his face. “You a fool to think you can take children to China and drive out British.” He thumped his fist against his chest. “I know better.”

  Hitchman’s expression derided him; but the conviction in T’ing-nan’s manner made me wonder if he wasn’t just baiting his father. I saw Kuan narrow his eyes as the same thought struck him. “Why do you say that?” Kuan asked T’ing-nan.

  The young man’s eyes glinted with mischief. “You trust her,” he said, pointing at me. “You think she help you. But she no good. She trick you.”

  Hitchman and Kuan turned on me. The suspicion I had often seen in Hitchman’s eyes was now reflected in Kuan’s. Dismayed, I looked at T’ing-nan, who grinned. We both knew he’d spoken the truth, but how had he found me out?

  “Explain,” Kuan ordered his son.

  “The night I run away,” T’ing-nan said, “I hide outside house. I see her come out while you and Nick and Hitchman looking for me. She run off. I follow her.”

  Now I remembered my feeling of being watched by someone. It had been T’ing-nan, spying on me. Horror crept into my bones.

  “She go to house in village. There she meet man. She tell him all about you.” T’ing-nan regarded his father with triumph. “She not work for you—she work for him. She try help him catch you, punish you.”

  He’d seen me with Mr. Slade and overheard us through the open window. Now T’ing-nan’s triumphant smile included me. He had said he would make me pay for refusing to hide him from Kuan. Now he’d fulfilled his threat.

  “Is this true, Miss Brontë?” demanded Kuan.

  “No!” I cried with all the conviction I could feign. “I don’t know what T’ing-nan is talking about.”

  But I instinctively backed away from him, and I could no longer hide my terror. Kuan’s gaze pierced straight through it to the truth. A storm of rage gathered in his eyes. “Who is this man?” His voice was a quiet, menacing hiss.

  “There was no man,” I faltered. “I never—”

  Hitchman seized me by my shoulders. “Who is he?”

  His fingers dug painfully into my flesh. His face was so close to mine that I could see the sharp edges of his teeth and smell his sulfurous breath. I shrank from him.

  “Answer me!” Hitchman struck my cheek a hard slap.

  My head snapped backward. Pain reverberated through my skull. My ears rang; the lights on the deck shattered into bright fragments. I had never been struck with such deliberate, calculated violence. The blow was as shocking and intimate as it was hurtful. It diminished me to a puny, hapless creature. How I wish I could have insisted on my innocence and persuaded Kuan that his son was lying! But my cowardly impulse was to obey Hitchman and avoid another blow.

  “His name is John Slade,” I said even as shame filled me. “He’s an agent with the Foreign Office.”

  “A spy for the Crown.” Hitchman spoke to Kuan in a tone of revelation and disgust while tightening his hold on me. “I warned you against taking Miss Brontë on. I never quite trusted her myself. But I never suspected that she had such dangerous connections.” He regarded me with amazement. “Well, well—the demure little governess has turned out to be a spy for a spy.”

  The rage in Kuan’s eyes turned murderous. His mouth thinned; his nostrils flared. Behind him the Chinese crew was watching, avid to see how he would punish me. T’ing-nan was grinning with childlike joy at my plight. So spiteful was he that he didn’t care that he had jeopardized his own hope of returning to China by not telling his father about me sooner.

  “When did you and this agent Slade join forces against me, Miss Brontë?” Kuan asked.

  I hesitated, but Hitchman raised his fist to strike me again. Cringing, I blurted, “It was after your henchman stole Isabel White’s book from my home and almost killed my brother.”

  “A man purporting to be your cousin accompanied you to Belgium,” Kuan said. “Was he in fact Mr. Slade?”

  “Yes,” I said. Hitchman’s fist remained poised above me.

  “Did he also accompany you to Balmoral Castle?” Kuan asked. “Did you tell him of my plan to kidnap the children?”

  Weak with terror and shame, I nodded. Kuan suddenly reached towards me. Panic exploded in my heart, for I thought he meant to rip it out of my chest. My back was pressed against the railing; Hitchman’s grasp imprisoned me. But Kuan’s fingers merely grazed my cheek in a caress almost tender.

  “Miss Brontë, I am most disappointed in you,” he said. His voice was reproving yet gentle, his gaze almost affectionate. “Your deceit is unforgivable. I regret that you will not enjoy the good fortune that I offered you. Instead, you will reap your punishment for betraying my cause as well as myself. So will your family suffer on your account. I will send my men to execute them rather than set them free.”

  “Please don’t hurt them!” I knew not what I was babbling. So eager was I to save my family, myself, and the children that I would have said anything. “I’m sorry for what I did. I’ve learned my lesson. I promise I’ll be loyal to you from now on. Have mercy!” I pleaded.

  “No more lies, Miss Brontë,” Hitchman said scornfully.

  He closed his hands around my throat. I clawed at them, trying in vain to tear them away. “Help!” I screamed.

  My voice drifted across empty ocean. T’ing-nan giggled. The crew waited, immobile. In my mind arose an image of the stone tablets inside Haworth Church that bore the names of my mother and my sisters Maria and Elizabeth. Never would I rest beside them. Never would Papa, Emily, Anne, Branwell, or Mr. Slade know my fate. After Hitchman strangled me, I would simply vanish beneath the waves.

  Then Kuan said, “No. Wait.”

  Hitchman paused, although his hands still encircled my throat. “We can’t let her live,” he said. “She could have destroyed you. She’ll try again.”

  “She is no danger to me here,” Kuan said. “She cannot get away. Nor can she communicate with her confederates.”

  The reprieve gave me hope. I held my breath and silently prayed for deliverance.

  “We’ve no use for her,” Hitchman said.

  All along I had feared Hitchman; now he was eroding Kuan’s favor towards me, and my chances of survival.

  “I do indeed have further use for Miss Brontë,” Kuan said. “I need her to care for my hostages.”

  I started to expel my breath in a sob of relief. Then Kuan said, “We shall wait until we’re far from England, near some foreign port where we can engage a nursemaid to tend the children.” He smiled at me—a dreadful smile that anticipated revenge. “Then we’ll dispatch Miss Brontë to the hell reserved for traitors.”

  41

  THAT NIGHT I DID MY BEST TO HIDE OUR GRAVE PREDICAMENT FROM the children and keep them quiet, but they were restless. Vicky asked me time after time what was going to happen to us. I didn’t know what to tell her. Bertie sulked and roamed the cabin like a caged animal. I tried the door and discovered that although the lock was strong iron, the door itself was loose in its frame. I searched the room for any instrument I could use as a lever to pry it open. The bunks were built of wooden rails, and after considerable effort, I managed to wrest one free—but even if I could force the door, how would I get the children off the ship and across the ocean to safety?

  I hid the rail under my mattress in the vain hope of later making use of it. The motion of the ship made me so ill that I lay on my bunk while the children fretted and I wondered what was happening at Balmoral. I imagined Mr. Slade and the Queen’s soldiers riding the roads, searching the forests and villages, and finding no trace of us. Later, I learned that that was indeed how Slade had spent the hours after our disappearance. I worried that his agents wouldn’t reach Haworth in time to free my family before Kuan’s henchmen arrived to kill them. What I never imagined were the events taking place at the parsonage. Here shall Branwell’s letter to Fr
ancis Grundy continue and explain:

  The hours that I passed in the cellar were the worst I’d ever known. Nausea, tremors, fever, and chills tortured me. I lay helpless on the floor, which was wet and foul from my effluvium. The dark pressed in on me like the death I welcomed yet dreaded. Anne did her best to nurse me, holding my head in her lap, stroking my brow. Emily uttered frequent, disgusted exclamations. Father prayed to the God who had forsaken us.

  After an eternity, the sickness departed. It left me exhausted, but my mind was miraculously lucid. For ages it had been so obsessed with thoughts of my dear, lost Lydia, my own misery, and my craving for liquor and laudanum that there was no capacity for anything else. Not a single line of verse, not a single new idea, had occurred to me in all that time. But lo, the voice of Inspiration now spoke to me! It told me how I might deliver us from this hellish nightmare.

  I pushed myself upright. Anne said, “What’s wrong?” Oh, the powerful temptation to lie down and allow whatever would happen to happen! But the voice whispered, This is your last chance. “Help me get up,” I said, gasping as I struggled to rise.

  “What for?” Emily said. “There’s nowhere to go. And there’s certainly nothing you can do.” I could feel her bitter scorn towards me, like poisonous fumes in the darkness.

  “Be still and rest,” Anne said.

  But I clambered to my hands and knees. I crawled across the cellar, groping my way. A wall suddenly materialized before me and slammed against my head. I yelped in pain.

  “What are you doing?” Father said, puzzled and anxious.

  I felt along the cold, rough stones embedded in the earthen surface of the wall. “Looking for the bottle of whisky that I just remembered I hid.”

  There was silence, during which I sensed them thinking that they’d believed they’d disposed of all the liquor I’d squirreled away in the house but I had outwitted them. Some months ago, desperate to secure the bottle in case of urgent need, I had forced myself to venture into the cellar. My family, knowing I was afraid of it, hadn’t thought to look here.