The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte tsaocb-1

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Lost your pupil, have you?” Hitchman said.

  “It seems that way,” I said, irked by his mocking manner. But T’ing-nan’s behavior afforded me a pretext for leaving the house. “Since I have nothing to do here, I should like to go into town.”

  “Very well,” Hitchman said.

  He summoned Ruth to accompany me, and Nick drove us to Penzance. The weather continued cool and drizzly. As Ruth and I walked up the main street, Nick trailed close behind us. We passed stalls at which fisherwomen in scarlet cloaks and broad hats hawked their wares to town ladies wearing fancy lace caps. Ruth paused, her attention caught by the pungent displays of fish. A peddler’s cart separated me from her and Nick. Swiftly, I edged away from them; I looked frantically around. Where would I find Oyster Cottage? I saw Nick roving the street, scanning the crowd for me. I hurriedly bent over a basket of cockles at a stall. He walked on without noticing me.

  A man’s voice hissed in my ear: “What in the deuce is going on?”

  Startled, I turned and saw Mr. Slade standing beside me. He wore shabby clothes like a fisherman’s, and a cap pulled low over his face. A sob of relief welled in my throat.

  “Don’t look at me,” Mr. Slade ordered in a harsh whisper. “Act as though we don’t know each other.”

  I tore my gaze from him and pretended to examine the cockles as I whispered, “The man we seek is not at the house. He’s expected to arrive later.”

  Mr. Slade stifled a curse. I saw Ruth and Nick approaching. “Here they come,” I said in a panic.

  “Look upward to your right,” Slade said urgently. “Do you see that house with the blue trim and two gables?”

  I saw it, on a hillside street beyond market, and nodded.

  “That’s Oyster Cottage,” Slade said. “Go there if you feel in danger.”

  There was no time to advise him of the rules that hindered my freedom. We moved apart, and the crowds separated us. Ruth and Nick joined me.

  “Find what you wanted?” Ruth asked.

  I picked up a cockle and paid the proprietor for it. “Yes,” I said.

  A storm blew in from the sea that night, lashing the waves against the cliffs and rain against the house. Foghorns moaned through my sleep. I was awakened by thumps and voices that echoed up from the cellars. Footsteps mounted the stairs. I listened, but nothing more happened. I slept until the parlor clock chimed seven. After washing and dressing, I ventured downstairs. Ruth served me a solitary breakfast. Outside the dining room window, a pale, drifting mist obscured the sea. The dampness, chill, and seclusion produced in me a languorous depression of my spirit. No sooner had I finished eating, than Hitchman appeared.

  “My partner arrived last night,” he said. “He wants to see you. Come with me.”

  The source of the sounds I’d heard now became apparent: The man must have arrived by boat and entered the house through a subterranean passage. This abrupt summons left me no time to inform Mr. Slade that our villain was at hand. Even if Mr. Slade had been watching the house, he would not have observed the arrival of its master. Fear choked the breath in my lungs, but it was easily outweighed by my strong curiosity.

  Hitchman led me up the stairs, to the forbidden third story. It smelled of the perfume I remembered from the chateau. We followed a dim passage lined with doors. The last one stood open; Hitchman ushered me inside a small, dim chamber that resembled the cabin of a ship. A round window like a porthole overlooked the mist-shrouded sea. A telescope sat upon a table; maps hung on the walls above a rusted brass-bound trunk. Near the desk stood the man I had waited so long to set my eyes upon.

  He was little taller than his son, but his proud carriage lent him a semblance of height. Unlike his son, he wore the dark coat and trousers of a British gentleman, and his gleaming black hair was cut short in corresponding fashion. Perhaps he had eschewed his native garb in order to blend in with the local citizens and move about freely. While the son was all restlessness, the father was all repose.

  “So we meet again, Miss Bronte,” he said.

  His silky, suave voice again worked an eerie magic upon my mind, dissolving my ties to Mr. Slade, the outside world, and everything sensible and sane. His face had a waxen gold skin that stretched tight over the curved planes of his bones. His age was indeterminate. With his haughty, sculpted nose and lips, he was at once repulsive and alluring. Words from Isabel White’s diary whispered in my mind: His strange beauty captivated me. His eyes, set beneath high, arched brows, were shaped like half moons. Their steady gaze drew me into their black depths. I feared that if I looked too long into them, I would lose myself. I struggled to think what Mr. Slade had told me to do, and I recalled my aim of learning as much as possible about this man.

  “Now that I have entered your employ,” I said with a calmness I did not feel, “may I know your name?”

  His half-moon eyes narrowed in faint amusement. “I am Kuan Tzu-chan. You may address me as Kuan.”

  I later learned that this was his family name, which, in Chinese fashion, he spoke before his personal name. To Hitchman, who stood beside me, he said, “Leave us.”

  Surprise, and offense, disrupted Hitchman’s genial expression. “I’ll stay, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind,” Kuan said simply.

  Hitchman stood irresolute for a moment, then departed. I saw that while he fancied himself as Kuan’s partner, he was clearly the subordinate.

  “Come, Miss Bronte,” said Kuan, “let us converse.” He pointed me toward a chair and took for himself the wooden captain’s chair behind the desk. It was too big for his slight frame, but he sat regally. “Are your quarters satisfactory? Have you everything you need?”

  I had engaged in similar conversations at every establishment where I’d worked; but Kuan’s voice imbued the mundane exchange with portentous significance. His keen scrutiny of me implied an interest in more than my comfort. “My physical needs are met, but I expected a little more. You promised me that if I accepted this position, I would live in luxury. And I prefer that my freedom not be so restricted.”

  He heard my complaint with a look of condescension. “There are times in life when we must delay gratification and tolerate minor inconveniences in order to earn our rewards. Now then: I understand that you have met my son and begun his lessons. How does he progress?”

  “Your son is intelligent, but he refuses to apply himself,” I said. “His antipathy towards my country has set him against mastering the language.”

  A shadow of displeasure crossed Kuan’s smooth face. “My son must learn to accept the circumstances that fortune has thrust upon him. And you, Miss Bronte, must overcome his resistance. Have you ever had difficult pupils in the past?”

  “Far too many,” I said.

  “Were you ultimately able to tame and instruct them?”

  “Not all,” I admitted. Were this an interview with any other employer, I would have tried to conceal my failings so he would not think ill of me; but the force of Kuan’s nature compelled me to honesty, as it had in Brussels. “It is impossible to teach someone who refuses to accept instruction.”

  “So you blame the pupils, and not yourself, for their failure to learn?” Kuan said with a glimmer of a smile.

  I didn’t want to anger him by implying that if T’ing-nan failed to learn English, it was his own fault; yet I wished to defend myself. “Medieval alchemists claimed to convert base metal to gold, but not even the best teacher can effect a similar transformation in a pupil.”

  “In my land, a good teacher is one who acknowledges her own mistakes and endeavors to correct them, rather than giving up,” Kuan said.

  He displayed the same arrogant superiority that I had observed in his son. I replied tartly, “With all due respect, sir, this is not your land.”

  A look of secretive gloating came over Kuan. “I detect in you a harsh attitude towards children, Miss Bronte. Do you dislike them so much?”

  My candor faltered; his observation was astute, a
nd a woman who admits disliking children risks seeming a monster. “I like them very well,” I replied.

  I could see that my falsehood did not deceive Kuan; yet satisfaction wreathed his features. “But still you would vigilantly protect any children in your charge?”

  “Of course I would,” I said.

  “You would endanger your own life before letting them come to harm?”

  Although I could not imagine sacrificing myself for any of the brats I’d taught-nor for Kuan’s rude, petulant son-I nodded, rather than contradict my previous answer.

  “You would place yourself between your charges and someone who attacked them?” Kuan said. “In fact, you would do anything rather than hurt a child?”

  My nods grew weaker, for I did not have much enthusiasm for children and could not commit to risking my life for an unknown hypothetical child; yet his satisfied expression deepened. I felt that I had passed some arcane test he had set for me. He steepled his hands under his chin as he continued to scrutinize my face. “Why did you choose a profession that is so ill suited to your nature?”

  “There are few others open to women,” I admitted.

  “But many Englishwomen stay home rather than enter the service of strangers,” Kuan said. “Why did you not?”

  “I was determined not to be a burden on my father,” I answered. “I considered it my duty to contribute to the household income.”

  “Duty to one’s parents is the highest virtue,” Kuan said. “But how onerous must be the burden of supporting a brother and sister who are unfit to earn their own living.”

  This description of Branwell and Emily enraged me, as did Kuan’s familiarity with our business. “They are not a burden,” I said in an icy tone. “Whatever I do for them and the rest of my family is done out of love, not obligation.”

  Kuan contemplated me. “For love of family, then, you would go to lengths that you would not for anyone else.” He seemed pleased to have deduced this.

  His questions had grown increasingly personal, and increasingly offensive. “May I ask the purpose of this discussion?”

  He waved away my query. “Its purpose will become evident in good time.”

  “Then until that time, I’ll not answer any more questions.”

  Kuan placed his hands on the arms of his chair, conjuring the image of an emperor on a throne. “I am your master, and you are my servant. You shall do whatever I decree.”

  Anger made me incautious. “I may be a servant, but you do not own me. Here in England, the law does not tolerate slavery.” I rose, flustered as usual while asserting myself. “If you will please excuse me, I must go now.”

  Sudden malevolence glimmered through Kuan’s calm visage. “Here in my domain, the laws of England do not apply. Sit down, Miss Bronte.”

  Now was the time to flee the house before he could pry more deeply into my mind; now was the time to fetch Mr. Slade to capture Kuan before he could fulfill his secret, evil purpose. I rushed to the door and flung it open-only to find Hitchman standing in the hall, barring my path.

  “You will remain until I determine that our conversation is finished,” Kuan said evenly.

  I sank into my chair. Hitchman closed the door, imprisoning me with Kuan. Yet even a caged animal will snap at its jailer.

  “I will answer more questions from you, under the condition that you answer questions from me,” I said, despite knowing that I was in no position to bargain.

  I expected Kuan to be angry, but he seemed gratified that I had stood up to him. “Your courage delights me, Miss Bronte.” A smile of arresting charm transformed his face. “Valor while under threat is a rare and admirable trait.”

  My emotions underwent a sudden, unsettling shift. I felt no longer defiant towards him, but flattered by his praise. Once more, as in Brussels, he had invoked his power to make me desirous of his good opinion, even though I knew him to be my enemy.

  “The bargain you propose is a fair one,” Kuan said. “I shall postpone my interrogation of you, and you may interrogate me. Is it agreed?”

  He extended his hand towards me. My small, unexpected victory startled me so much that my mouth fell open. We shook hands. His grasp was firm, his slender fingers like iron sheathed in silk. I had a disturbing sense that I had agreed to much more than an exchange of information. Even more disturbing was the way our new comradeship gladdened my spirits.

  “Well, Miss Bronte?” said Kuan. “I await your questions.”

  All I could think to say was, “Who are you?”

  Kuan nodded his approval; he settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “This is an instance when a short question requires a long answer. I trust you are intelligent enough that by the time I am finished, you will deduce why I wish you to know my story in such detail. Who I am extends beyond my mere identity and has deep roots in the past. In China, a man’s history begins not with himself, but with his forebears. Mine were rice merchants in Shanghai, the great trading city on the eastern coast. The family business was prosperous, but my father aspired to join the ruling mandarin class, and I-his eldest son-was chosen to elevate our family’s station. His wealth bought the best tutors for me. I studied for long years. At age twenty, I passed the examination for entry into the civil service of the emperor.”

  This sounded indescribably foreign to me. Kuan’s words seemed to waft me upon a breeze laden with Oriental spices. I found myself mesmerized by his voice. Vague scenes of Chinese pagodas and palaces took shape in the mist outside the window; the gulls’ cries became the babble of Chinese merchants.

  “I was then appointed district magistrate of a village in Fukien Province,” Kuan continued. “There I learned the skills of statesmanship and administration. For the next seventeen years, I worked in various posts throughout the land.”

  I found myself unable to look away from his steady, black, vertiginous eyes; an eerie stupor relaxed me. Kuan’s beauty grew more alluring and less repellent by the moment. I didn’t feel the same attraction towards him as I felt towards Mr. Slade; yet he exerted upon me a pull that I couldn’t define. Did my character predestine me to be smitten by Kuan? Did some magnetic current flow from him to me, as between lodestone and iron? I began to fathom some part of his motive for telling me his life story: He sensed how drawn I am to the lure of things dramatic and fantastical, and he wanted to sink his hooks into my mind.

  His suave, musical voice went on: “Those were tumultuous years. While I was a judicial commissioner in Sinkiang Province, it became embroiled in a war against the followers of a prophet called Mohammed. Two years later, when I was financial commissioner in Hunan, rebel attacks beset the province. By this time I had married; my wife had borne my son T’ing-nan. Our two daughters followed.” Dark memories swirled in Kuan’s eyes. “I eventually attained a post as secretary to the governor of the city that your people call Canton.”

  The part of my mind that remained rational comprehended that Kuan hadn’t yet said anything to explain his actions.

  “Canton is located in the tropic region of south China,” he continued. “It is a busy port where merchants from Europe, Arabia, the Orient, and the New World come to trade. These foreign traders live separate from the townspeople, in factories on the bank of the Whampoa River. There are vast fortunes to be made in tea and silk, by Chinese and foreigners alike. It was a most advantageous post for me.”

  “Then why did you leave China?” I asked boldly. “What brought you to England?”

  He regarded me in silence, his eyes narrowed to slits, as though measuring how much I deserved to hear-or how far he could trust me. At last he folded his hands on the desk and said with an enigmatic smile, “Those are questions that I shall answer on a future occasion. You are dismissed. Until I summon you again, you will continue teaching my son-if you can.”

  30

  I spent the rest of the day in solitude. T’ing-nan never reappeared for more lessons. I surreptitiously tried the doors and windows-and found them all tightly secured
: I was a prisoner. That night I heard an argument between Kuan and T’ing-nan. The son screamed in Chinese; the father never raised his voice. Later I heard stealthy movements in the cellar. I had a frightening sense that there were many more people in the house than I had encountered. The atmosphere was so turbid with menace that I vowed to stay not a moment longer. The next morning, I was dressed in cloak and bonnet when the key turned in the lock and opened my cell. I hurried out and intercepted Hitchman in the foyer.

  “Good morning, Miss Bronte,” he said, surveying me in his insolent fashion. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “To town, if you please,” I said.

  I regretted that I could not take my bags, which would alert him that I had no intention to return; but I would gladly escape with only the clothes I was wearing. I tried to hide my nervousness, but I must have failed, because Hitchman looked askance at me.

  “Why must you go to town again so soon?” he said.

  “I need to post a letter,” I said, holding up the envelope that contained a message written to Papa, Emily, and Anne. “My family will wish to know that I arrived here safely.”

  Hitchman said, “Give me the letter. I’ll see that it’s posted.”

  “Oh, but I’d rather do it myself and spare you the trouble.” Dismay sank my spirits, for he had clearly been instructed not to allow me to leave.

  “Hadn’t you better attend to your duties?” Hitchman said.

  “I doubt that Master T’ing-nan will mind waiting for his lesson,” I said.

  Hitchman regarded me with suspicion alerted by my urgent need to be gone. “Go to the schoolroom, Miss Bronte. I’ll send your pupil to you.”

  Defeated, I turned to obey, but he grabbed my arm and swung me around to face him. “I have something to say to you first. You have somehow earned Kuan’s good opinion, but until you’ve proven to me that you’re trustworthy, I’ll be watching you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, breathless with fright. He, unlike his master, had no gentleness nor magic to lull me. “May I go now?”