“’E paid me to snoop around Yorkshire and find out about the Bronte woman,” Crowe mumbled, fidgeting. “I broke into the parsonage to steal a book ’e wanted, but someone almost caught me. I ’ad to run.” He had been the stranger who’d questioned the Haworth folk and nearly killed Branwell!
And with more pressure, it came forth that Ogden had been the man who chased me at the opera and searched our room at the Chapter Coffee House.
“What did you plan to do with Miss Bronte after you kidnapped her?” Anger tinged Mr. Slade’s calm voice, and I liked to think it signified more than ordinary concern on my behalf.
“I was supposed to drive her to Kirkstall Abbey,” said Ogden. “Someone was to meet us and take her someplace. I don’t know who nor where.”
A shiver passed through me. Had Mr. Slade not rescued me, would I have been transported across the ocean into the hands of the evil LeDuc? Did he want me yet?
Mr. Slade interrogated the prisoners for quite some time, but they appeared to have no further information about LeDuc. “What’s going to happen to us?” Jakes demanded.
“For now, you’ll stay in prison, under constant guard,” Mr. Slade said.
The men sullenly accepted their fate. Mr. Slade exited the room; I met him in the corridor. We walked from the prison, both of us rendered uncomfortable by what I’d seen him do. It was not until we were riding in the carriage that Mr. Slade spoke.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking out the window. “Know that the requisites of my work are as disturbing to me as they must be to you.” His profile was strained. “Will you forgive me?”
I said, “I forgive you.” But I couldn’t forgive myself for the thrill I had felt watching him.
Mr. Slade turned to me. Our gazes met, and I saw that he discerned what I’d felt while he’d coerced the criminals. I burned with shame-what a perverse, unnatural woman he must think me! But his face relaxed, and from him eased a breath that was part mirth, part relief. A strange sweetness warmed me. He would not condemn me for the guilty pleasure I had felt because he’d felt it, too. The episode at the prison had been a kind of intimacy we had shared. As the carriage sped through the streets of Birmingham, I waited to hear what Mr. Slade would say.
“It seems that M. LeDuc is the criminal we’re looking for,” Mr. Slade said. Although he spoke of our investigation and not ourselves, his voice was unsteady. “Perhaps the solution to the mystery lies in Belgium.”
23
Here I must pause in my own narrative to relate important events that concerned my sister Emily. On the evening of the day we encountered the Birmingham criminals, Anne and Mr. Slade and I returned to Haworth. I treated Anne with a newfound respect that she seemed to appreciate. Emily was oddly preoccupied. When I asked her what had happened at the Charity School, she was reluctant to tell me. I never knew the whole story until after I read in her journal the following account:
The Journal of Emily Bronte
11 July 1848.
At dawn, I emerged gradually from sleep to find Mrs. Grimshaw at my bedside. She whispered, “Get dressed, then meet me in the school hall.”
Her stealthy mien lent a sinister air to her command, but I obeyed. Inside the silent, deserted school, Mrs. Grimshaw lit candles for us both, unlocked the cellar door, and led me down the stairway to a dungeon of passages with dirt floors and damp, rank stone walls. I shuddered, for I sensed the place to be evil. We entered a cell carved out of the earth. A little girl stood tied to a wooden pillar by ropes that bound her wrists and ankles. It was Frances Cullen, my shy pupil. She wore a thin white shift, and her feet were bare. Her hair was disheveled, her face tearstained. She cringed from us and whimpered. I stared in shock.
“Frances has been naughty,” Mrs. Grimshaw said, “and naughty girls must be punished.” She handed me a leather strap. “Whip her twenty lashes. Do it hard enough to hurt, but not to leave permanent scars.”
This was how I must pay her for excusing my theft! Dumbstruck with horror, I stood frozen. Mrs. Grimshaw walked out of the room and shut the door; her footsteps mounted the stairs. I turned to Frances. She was watching me, her eyes huge with terror. I flung away the strap, set down my candle, knelt beside Frances, and put my arms around her.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “I won’t hurt you.” Frances’s rigid, quaking body went limp against me, and she sobbed. Her misery tore my heart. “Why does Mrs. Grimshaw want you punished so harshly?”
“I made the Reverend Grimshaw angry,” Frances whispered.
“How?” I asked, wondering what wrongs this meek, gentle child could have done. She gulped, as if choking on the recollection. “What happened, Frances?” I said urgently.
“I’m not supposed to tell!” she cried.
“I won’t tell anyone you did,” I promised.
This seemed to reassure Frances. “He bade me accompany him to the windmill,” she said in a quavering voice that was so low I could barely hear. “He… he ordered me to take off my clothes and lie on the floor and-oh, I’m ashamed to say any more!”
She underwent a spate of trembling, and I felt sick with dismay. It now seemed certain that the Reverend Grimshaw used the windmill for immoral relations with pupils, including Jane Fell and now Frances. I then noticed the blood that trickled down her bare legs, and fresh horror assailed me. Such blasphemy!
“I started to cry,” Frances continued in a whisper. “He told me to stop. He said he’d sheltered me and fed me, and I should be glad to repay him.” She began to weep. “He hit me and held me down. He said I must learn how to please men and not complain. He hurt me so much.” Frances’s sobs rose to a hysterical pitch. “He… he told Mrs. Grimshaw I’d been bad. She brought me here and tied me up. I’ve been alone in the dark for hours.”
Rage at the Grimshaws burned in me as I unknotted the ropes. “Fear no more,” I said. “I won’t whip you.”
“But you must!” Frances protested, to my surprise. “If you don’t, Mrs. Grimshaw will, and she’ll do it harder.”
We heard footsteps on the stairs: Mrs. Grimshaw was coming to see how the punishment progressed. “Please!” Frances cried.
I took up the strap, raised my skirt, and said, “Scream and cry as loudly as you can.”
Twenty times I lashed the strap hard against my own leg and endured the pain, while Frances screamed as though I struck her. After it was done, I felt sore but virtuous for having spared Frances. She later appeared at breakfast looking chastened, and Mrs. Grimshaw gave me a nod of approval. My hatred for the school burgeoned. I could not bear to stay in this place where children were tortured; yet I didn’t want to abandon Frances. Though I yearned for home, I couldn’t forsake my mission. It seemed likely that Isabel White had suffered the same evils as Frances, but perhaps the school harbored more secrets that I must learn for the sake of Charlotte and our family. Hence, I resolved to stay and persevere.
But after the pupils retired to the dormitory, Mrs. Grimshaw waylaid me. “I saw Frances undressing, and there’s not a mark on her,” she said, bristling with anger. “You didn’t whip her. Next time, do as you’re told, or I’ll ’ave the police on you.”
She left me shaking with dread. I realized I must leave the school, no matter my regrets. That midnight, I quietly dressed, then packed my satchel. I crept outside, intending to walk to town and board the earliest train home. A cool, restless wind blew clouds across the stars and the full moon. The trees in the garden tossed their boughs; shadows stirred. As I sped down the path, I noticed a light. It came from the forbidden windmill.
Curiosity delayed my flight. I crept up to the windmill. Its door was closed, but the lighted window was open. Through it I heard men’s voices inside the mill. I peered through the window and saw the Reverend Grimshaw standing in the light from a lantern he held. I had a clear view of his face, but the two men opposite him stood with their backs to me.
“Gentlemen, I no longer wish to do business with you,” the Reverend Grimshaw said, his man
ner at once pompous and fearful.
“It’s too late for you to terminate our association,” one of the other men said in a high, cultured voice.
“But this has become too dangerous. Rumors about the school are circulating in town. The Church has sent officials to inspect the premises. And the more girls who pass through the school, the greater the chance that one will talk.” The Reverend Grimshaw seemed on the verge of weeping. “Please, good sirs-if you don’t release me, I shall be ruined!”
“If you renege on your promise, you’ll have worse to fear than that the Church will discover the fate of the girls in your charge,” said the other man. His voice was deeper, and menacing. “Would you like everyone to know that you satisfy your carnal desires with your pupils?”
Even in the meager light I could see the Reverend Grimshaw’s complexion turn pale.
“You can either fulfill your obligations to us,” his adversary said, “or be exposed as a foul sinner.”
The Reverend Grimshaw cast his gaze upward, as though he expected the heavens to rain fire. Defeat settled upon him. His pomposity deflated, he seemed aged and shrunken. I pitied him not. “I’ll fetch her,” he said.
He and his companions left the windmill; I followed, undetected. The Reverend Grimshaw entered the house. The two men walked to the front of the school. I hastened after them, my heart beating fast, my blood racing. In the road stood a carriage and horses. The two men waited beside the carriage, while I hid in the moonlit woods. Presently, down the lane from the school came the Reverend Grimshaw with his lantern. Beside him walked Abigail Weston, once friend to the now-absent Jane Fell. They halted at the carriage. The driver opened its door.
“Where are you taking me?” Abigail asked the men.
Giddy excitement, tinged with fear, inflected her voice. One of the men said, “You’re going to London, to live in Paradise.”
Was she following in the footsteps of Isabel White? I felt certain that both young women had been mistreated in the same manner as had Frances, and both schooled for some evil purpose. Isabel White’s path had led to the criminal she called her master, and a life of sordid intrigue. Alas, I believed that Abigail, Jane, Frances, and other girls at the school were destined for the same.
Abigail and the men rode away in the carriage. The Reverend Grimshaw returned to the school. I trudged along the road until I reached the village.
I write this account as the train carries me homeward. Morning sun now gilds the countryside, but my thoughts dwell in the dark realms of uncertainty. Will my discoveries be of any use to Charlotte and Mr. Slade?
I regret that Emily underwent such distress for my sake. All she told us when Mr. Slade, Anne, and I arrived home was how the girls in the school were beaten and that one had been taken to London by men who promised she would live in Paradise. Mr. Slade received this meager news with profound appreciation.
“Paradise is the name of a London gaming club and house of ill repute,” he told Emily. “Its clients are English and foreign politicians, businessmen, diplomats, and nobility. Your observations suggest that Monsieur LeDuc employs girls from the school to draw prominent men into his schemes. He must have discovered Isabel at the school, used her as a courier between himself and the radical societies, and put her to work in the Paradise, where she met the prime minister. You have done well by giving us a place to investigate his doings. I’ll put the club under surveillance at once.”
Emily seemed indifferent to Slade’s praise. We could not have suspected at the time how important her discovery would turn out to be.
“That a school which purports to be a charity would ruin helpless, innocent girls is an outrage!” I exclaimed.
Papa said, “I shall report the Reverend Grimshaw to the Church so that he may be censured and the school closed.”
“As they should be,” said Slade. “But your taking action against the school will drive Monsieur LeDuc deeper into hiding. I am afraid we must leave it alone until our work is done.”
“He’s right, Papa,” said Anne.
“But the girls will suffer in the meantime,” Emily objected in alarm.
“Therefore, it’s more important than ever that we find Monsieur LeDuc and put a stop to his evildoing as soon as possible,” I said.
“We can catch a train to London tonight and book passage on a ship for Belgium tomorrow,” Mr. Slade said to me.
I was thrilled that he would include me in his journey. He probably wished to avoid another argument, yet I dared to wonder if he might have another, more personal motive.
The thought of traveling again, while I was on the verge of collapse from exhaustion and nervous strain, was appalling; still I jumped at the chance for another venture with Mr. Slade, and I heard the siren song that the thought of Belgium always stirs in my heart.
“I will be ready,” I said.
24
The steam packet labored across the English Channel, the paddle wheels churning noisily, funnels belching smoke, and sails billowing. I stood on the deck, my eyes dazzled by the vast ocean that sparkled with cobalt, emerald, and aquamarine lights. Ships dotted the rolling waves. Seabirds wheeled high against the sky’s blue brilliance and majestic white clouds. I relished the salty wind. Mr. Slade and I had sailed from London on that day of 14 August, then boarded the Channel packet in Dover. Now the Continent came into view. The coast was a line of golden sunshine, touched with viridian green. As the ship bore me toward that coast I marveled that my quest had once again led me into the past.
Twice before had I made this journey. The first time, in 1842, Papa had escorted Emily and me to school in Brussels. There I found the new sights, acquaintances, and knowledge I had longed for. I also gained other experiences that I could never have anticipated.
It began innocently enough. At age twenty-five I was older than my classmates at the Pensionnat Heger, a Protestant among Catholics, a shy Englishwoman surrounded by gregarious, French-speaking Belgians. The only person who paid me any particular attention was Monsieur Heger, husband of the school’s mistress, a professor who instructed his wife’s pupils. His ruthless criticism of my essays made me cry; his praise thrilled me. He was a small, black-haired, black-bearded man of ugly face and irritable temper, but his keen intellect stimulated my mind. Soon my heart beat fast at the sight of him. In the evenings I chanced to meet him in the garden, where he smoked his cigars and we debated the merits of various authors. I thought of us as master and pupil, nothing more. Not until Emily and I returned home did I realize that I had deeper feelings for M. Heger.
My second voyage across the Channel occurred in 1843. I returned alone to Brussels, eager to take up a position as an English teacher at the school. But Madame Heger began watching me and behaving coldly towards me. I never saw M. Heger except from a distance. Our lessons and talks ceased. Madame had discovered I was in love with her husband, and she had separated us. I stayed in Belgium until my health and spirits failed, and I at last recognized the sin and futility of loving a married man. I returned home, broken and grieving. My punishment was years of writing to M. Heger, begging him for letters that never came. That I loved him, and he cared naught for me, still hurts me. I am still plagued by a sense of unfinished business.
Yet now, by a strange fortune, I found myself again bound for Brussels. I felt a familiar jumble of excitement, fear, and hope. I traveled as if upon a dark, turbulent sea of memory.
Mr. Slade joined me at the railing. His folded arms rested close beside mine; the wind ruffled his black hair. My heartbeat quickened for him as it once had for M. Heger.
“The sea refreshes even the most aggrieved mind,” Mr. Slade said in a quiet, musing tone.
I had discovered this to be true, and I wondered what experience had inspired Mr. Slade’s remark. “Whenever I am near the sea, I feel such awe, exhilaration, and freedom.” Those emotions surged through me now. “Its magnificence elevates me above my petty concerns.”
Mr. Slade gave me a sidelong look. �
�Such magnificence dwarfs mankind and shows us how weak we are compared to the forces of nature.”
“Indeed,” I said, “but for me, the ocean inspires a glorious sense that anything is possible. I feel myself to be in the presence of God.”
Mr. Slade’s expression turned remote. “I wish I could share your delight in His presence,” he said. “There was a time when I renounced God for His cruelty.”
His harsh words shocked and appalled me.
“There was a time when I wished never to cross this sea again because I couldn’t bear to face the past,” he said.
I saw that Mr. Slade was reflecting upon memories which were no less bitter than mine. The sea had worked some enchantment on us, bringing our deepest secrets close to the surface. Launched free from land and ordinary restraints, we could talk frankly.
“Did something go wrong in your work as a spy?” I asked.
A humorless laugh gusted from Mr. Slade. “Had I concentrated solely on spying, misfortune would have spared me.” Silence ensued while he contemplated the distant shore. Then he began to speak in a voice drained of emotion: “One of the men I spied upon was a French professor at the Sorbonne in Paris. He led a secret society that aimed to overthrow King Louis Philippe. I posed as an aspiring radical French journalist and was admitted to the society. The professor had a daughter named Mireille. She kept house for him and wrote political tracts about corruption in the court. She was the most beautiful, enchanting woman I had ever met.”
A note of yearning nostalgia crept into Mr. Slade’s voice. Much as I wanted to hear his story, I did not like to listen to him praise another woman for traits I clearly lacked.
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